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CELESTE 


NOBODY'S 


A  NOVEL 


BY 

VIRGINIA    DEMAREST 

AUTHOR  OF " 
"THE   FRUIT   OF   DESIRE" 


WITH    FRONTISPIECE 


NEW     YORK     AND     LONDON 

HARPER  &  BROTHERS 

M       -       C       -       M       -       X       -       I 


COPYRIGHT.    1911.    BY    HARPER   &    BROTHERS 

PRINTED   IN   THE   UNITED    STATES    OF  AMERICA 

PUBLISHED  JULY,    1911 


NOBODY'S 


912718 


NOBODY'S 


CHAPTER  I 

LOWNDESVILLE  — all  out!"  cried  the  con- 
^  ductor,  as  he  leaned  in  at  the  doorway  of  the 
dusty  car.  The  brakes  were  creaking,  the  trucks 
jerking,  and  the  short  train  was  slowing  up  at  a 
dismal-looking  station  on  the  right. 

Gordon  Hartley  hastily  took  down  his  valise,  um- 
brella, and  light  overcoat  from  the  rack  above  his 
seat  and  proceeded  to  change  his  smoking-cap  for 
his  hat. 

"I  didn't  know  we  were  so  near,"  he  apologized 
to  the  genial  conductor,  who  had  now  advanced  to 
him.  "I  thought  Lowndes ville  was  a  considerable 
place,  but  I  don't  see  a  single  residence." 

"The  town  lies  a  mile  to  the  west,"  the  man  ex- 
plained. "A  little  bobtail,  one-horse  street-car  runs 
down  here  to  take  passengers  up  to  the  Square. 
Spite  work,  sir — spite  work!  When  our  road  was 
being  run  through,  and  all  other  places  on  the  line 
granted  free  right  of  way,  Lowndesville  wouldn't  stir 
a  peg.     Most  of 'it  belongs  to  old  General  Lowndes, 


:;.;.         NOBODY'S 

the  crankiest •  old '.skunk-'. that;  ever  breathed,  and  he 
wasn't  in  favor  of  progress.  Place  was  named  after 
his  family.  Folks  plead  with  him  and  begged  him 
to  be  sensible,  but  he  wouldn't  listen.  There  was 
some  talk  of  the  company  taking  it  into  court,  but 
they  finally  got  mad,  cut  the  town  clean  out,  and 
made  this  old  field  the  terminus." 

When  he  had  alighted,  Hartley,  who  was  a  tall, 
dark,  smooth-shaven  young  man,  espied  the  street- 
car in  the  road  beyond  the  station-house.  It  was  a 
battered,  diminutive  vehicle  drawn  by  a  lazy-looking 
mule  which  stood  between  two  sagging  trace-chains. 
A  red-faced  young  man  without  a  coat,  his  shirt- 
sleeves rolled  above  his  brawny  elbows,  a  jaunty  straw 
hat  on  his  head,  stood  on  the  front  platform  ringing  a 
snarling  gong. 

"All  aboard,  stranger!"  he  called  out,  with  a 
jovial  grin,  as  he  saw  Hartley  approaching.  "We 
don't  make  but  two  trips  a  day  on  this  line  and  we 
have  to  be  in  a  hurry  to  do  that.  Climb  in  and 
take  a  seat." 

With  a  smile  of  amusement  Hartley  obeyed.  He 
found  only  one  other  passenger  in  the  car,  a  negro 
laborer  in  soiled  and  tattered  clothing,  who  sat  with 
a  tin  lunch-pail  between  his  lank  legs  and  was  busy 
hulling  and  eating  peanuts.  As  Hartley  entered  the 
car  the  negro  promptly  removed  his  slouch  hat  and 
thrust  it  beneath  him. 

"The  rule  is  to  take  up  the  fare  before  we  start," 
the  conductor  advanced  to  say,  still  in  his  jesting 


NOBODY'S 

mood.  "Most  everybody  in  town  has  an  account 
with  the  company,  but  niggers  and  strangers  have 
to  come  across.     Five  cents,  please." 

Highly  amused,  Hartley  paid  his  fare  and  watched 
the  conductor  as  he  turned  to  the  negro  and  held  out 
his  hand.  "Here,  here!"  he  cried,  "jerk  out  that 
nickel!     Are  you  asleep?" 

"Been  wukin'  for  de  road  to-day,  Marse  Charley," 
the  man  answered,  "en  de  boss  done  say  I  could 
ride  home." 

"He  did,  eh?  Well,  gi'  me  some  of  them  goobers. 
Don't  you  see  you  are  littering  the  floor  up?  I 
never  like  the  smell  of  'em — when  I  ain't  eating 
em. 

The  negro  gave  him  a  handful  of  the  nuts,  and, 
thrusting  them  into  his  hip-pocket,  the  conductor 
went  to  the  platform  and  took  up  the  reins.  "Gee- 
up!"  he  chirped,  and  the  trace-chains  rattled,  the 
car  shook  and  rumbled  onward. 

The  grade  being  upward,  their  progress  was  slow, 
and  the  driver  made  as  frequent  use  of  the  heavy 
whip  he  carried  as  was  consistent  with  the  consump- 
tion of  his  peanuts.  Presently  they  reached  the 
brow  of  the  hill;  the  old-fashioned,  rambling  town 
lay  stretched  out  before  them,  and  Hartley  found 
himself  quite  taken  by  the  picturesque  old  houses 
on  either  side  of  the  way.  One  old  mansion,  in  par- 
ticular, drew  his  attention.  It  stood  farther  back 
from  the  street  than  its  neighbors  and  on  much  more 
extensive  grounds.  There  was  a  high  brick  wall  in 
2  3 


NOBODY'S 

front  which  was  overgrown  with  ivy.  The  house 
was  a  square,  two-storied,  red-brick  building  with  a 
long,  white  veranda  in  front. 

Noticing  that  his  passenger  was  looking  at  the 
place,  the  conductor  leaned  in  the  door,  swallowed, 
and  said: 

''Mighty  nigh  every  stranger  takes  a  peep  at  that 
house,  but  you  bet  they  don't  get  inside.  Folks  say 
the  front  gate  h'ain't  been  open  for  eighteen  year 
or  more." 

"I  suppose  it's  vacant,"  Hartley  observed. 

"No,  it  h'ain't,"  the  conductor  informed  him. 
1 '  The  old  chap  that  owns  it  lives  there  all  by  himself, 
except  an  old  nigger  man  and  his  wife  that  lives  in 
one  of  the  shacks  behind.  You  may  have  heard  of 
old  General  James  Cary  Lowndes — well,  he's  the 
chap.  They  say  every  town  has  a  freak  or  two,  and 
he's  ours.  I  could  tell  you  a  lot  about —  Whoa!" 
The  conductor  suddenly  turned  to  the  colored  pas- 
senger, and  nodded  toward  the  mule,  which  had 
stopped.  "Say,  you  coon,  if  you  are  through  in  the 
dining-car,  get  a  hump  on  yourself  and  go  fasten  that 
trace-chain." 

The  negro  obeyed  with  alacrity  and  returned  to 
his  seat  just  as  the  car  started.  They  were  now 
nearing  the  Square,  and,  being  occupied  in  bowing 
profusely  to  various  pedestrians  and  loungers  in 
doorways  and  at  gates,  the  conductor  seemed  to  for- 
get to  resume  his  story.  "Say,"  he  suddenly  be- 
thought himself  to   inquire,  "which  hotel  do  you 

4 


NOBODY'S 

want  to  put  up  at — they  are  both  located  on  the 
Square." 

"Neither  of  them,"  Hartley  replied.  "I'm  going 
out  to  the  country  right  away.  But  first  I  want  to 
see  a  friend  of  mine — a  lawyer  here,  George  El  wood. 
I  think  he  wrote  me  that  his  office  was — " 

"You  bet  it  is.  It's  right  next  to  the  barber- 
shop, on  the  ground  floor,  two  doors  south  of  the 
post-office.  I'll  show  you.  Gee-up!  So  you  know 
George  ?  He's  just  back  from  a  fishing-trip.  That 
fellow  has  an  easy  job.  I  wish  I  had  it — nothing  to 
do  except  look  after  folks' s  property,  collect  bad 
notes,  and  make  a  speech  to  a  sleepy  jury  now  and 
then.  Here  you  are.  Hop  off  and  cut  across  the 
corner.  It  will  save  you  a  hundred  yards  or  more. 
There  it  is — you  can  see  his  sign  from  here.    So  long !' ' 

"So  long !"  Hartley  echoed,  as  he  stepped  out,  and 
the  car  rumbled  away  on  its  worn  and  uneven  rails. 

The  Square  consisted  of  four  sides  of  low  brick 
stores,  cotton  warehouses,  and  offices,  all  of  which 
had  wooden  sheds  covering  the  sidewalks  to  the 
gutters.  In  the  center  stood  the  great,  square 
Court  House,  which  was  built  of  yellow  brick  and 
surmounted  by  a  quaint  tower  containing  a  com- 
bined fire-bell  and  town  clock.  On  the  common, 
which  lay  around  the  building,  were  several  crude 
hitching-racks  made  of  unbarked  poles,  a  public 
well,  and  watering  -  troughs  and  numerous  white- 
hooded  wagons  from  the  mountainous  country  lying 
about  the  town. 

5 


NOBODY'S 

"By  George,  it's  bully — it  is  like  home!"  the 
stranger  chuckled.  "It  is  glorious,  restful.  Old 
Tennessee  is  good  enough  for  me.  I'd  never  go 
back  to  New  York  if  I  didn't  have  to.  I'm  certainly 
tired  of  it — dead  tired." 


CHAPTER   II 

HE  found  the  little  frame  building  for  which  he 
was  looking.  It  was  painted  white,  and  con- 
tained the  front  and  back  rooms  of  his  friend's  law 
office.  Looking  in  at  the  open  doorway,  he  saw 
Elwood  writing  at  an  old-fashioned  rosewood  desk 
at  a  window,  the  sill  of  which  was  only  a  foot  or 
so  from  the  sidewalk.  The  lawyer,  about  thirty 
years  of  age,  was  above  medium  height,  well-built, 
and  had  light  hair  and  mustache,  and  was  in  his 
shirt-sleeves,  and  had  a  cigar  in  the  corner  of  his 
mouth. 

Smiling  expectantly,  Hartley  rested  his  bag  on 
the  threshold  and  gently  rapped.  The  man  at  the 
desk  scowled,  rolled  his  cigar  between  his  lips,  and 
without  looking  up  growled: 

"Come  in!" 

"I'll  be  hanged  if  I  do,"  was  the  answer.  "I 
wouldn't  go  in  a  joint  like  this  without  special  police 
protection." 

1 '  Great  Caesar !"  Elwood  had  glanced  around  and 
was  now  on  his  feet,  a  delighted  look  on  his  face,  his 
hand  extended.  "By  George,  old  chap,  I  thought 
it  was  a  negro  I  sent  to  the  Court  House  with  a  deed 
to  record.     Well,  well,  here  you  are  at  last,  and 

7 


NOBODY'S 

looking  like  Fifth  Avenue  on  Easter  Sunday.  Come 
in,  come  in  and  sit  down — haven't  got  a  blasted 
thing  to  do — just  finished  the  only  job  on  hand.  So 
you've  struck  old  Tennessee  at  last?" 

"Yes;  the  Lord  knows  I've  been  wanting  to 
come  long  enough."  The  new-comer  smiled  as  he 
took  the  vacant  chair  by  the  desk  and  glanced  about 
the  room.  He  saw  a  row  of  bookcases  against  the 
white-plastered  wall,  a  torn  map  of  the  State  thirty 
or  forty  years  of  age,  a  later  one  of  the  county, 
flanked  on  either  side  by  engravings  of  Lee  and 
Jackson,  Henry  Clay  and  Brownlow,  an  open  fire- 
place half  filled  with  the  ashes  of  the  past  winter,  a 
pair  of  ring-topped  dog-irons  submerged  by  the 
sweepings  of  the  floor  for  the  entire  spring  and 
summer. 

' '  When  your  sister  bought  her  plantation  I  looked 
for  you  then,"  the  lawyer  pursued.  "That  was  two 
years  ago,  and  you  are  here  now  for  the  first  time." 

"You  see,  I  was  just  getting  the  run  of  my  work 
in  the  bank  in  New  York,"  Hartley  answered,  "and 
they  couldn't  spare  me.  I  was  awfully  green  at 
first,  and  had  to  buckle  down  to  it  night  and  day. 
I  tell  you  I  lost  flesh  for  a  while.  Besides,  I  knew 
Cynthia  could  manage  here,  especially  as  she  had 
uncle  and  aunt  with  her.  You  wrote  me,  I  think, 
that  her  plantation  was  a  bargain  ?" 

"The  biggest  I  ever  saw,"  Elwood  declared. 
"Women  are  always  lucky.  She  got  two  thousand 
acres  of  rich  land  and  one  of  the  finest  old  houses 

8 


NOBODY'S 

in  this  part  of  the  country.  She  spent  plenty  of 
money  restoring  the  house,  and  it  is  now  in  tiptop 
condition.  There  are  a  great  many  old-time  darkies 
on  the  place,  and  she  has  all  the  help  she  needs. 
Miss  Cynthia  was  anxious  to  have  you  invest  here, 
too." 

"My  father  made  that  impossible,"  the  New- 
Yorker  said.  "He  had  the  interest  in  the  bank, 
and  when  he  died  he  willed  it  to  me  with  the  request 
that  I  take  personal  charge  of  it  as  a  business.  He 
was  a  little  afraid  I'd  not  settle  down  at  anything. 
He  left  the  money  to  my  sister,  and  I  am  sure  she 
acted  wisely  in  buying  Fairview." 

"And  you  have  never  even  been  there  yet?"  the 
lawyer  said.  "Well,  you'll  have  a  fine  place  to 
rest  in,  good  fishing  and  hunting,  and  mountain-dew 
whiskey  galore.  But,  gee,  Gordon,  you  don't  know 
how  lucky  you  are.  I  never  think  of  your  dandy 
life  up  there  without  wanting  to  kick  over  the  traces 
and  quit  this  mossback  existence." 

"How  funny!  when  I've  just  been  thinking  how 
lucky  you  are,"  the  banker  laughed.  "The  sort  of 
thing  we  have  up  there  may  be  all  right  for  those 
born  to  it,  but  I  give  you  my  word  it  has  rather 
palled  on  me.  I  am  certainly  glad  to  get  away 
from  it  for  a  while.  The  whole  thing  is  sheer  mad- 
ness, a  roaring,  whirling  chaos  of  jostling,  jealous 
humanity.  I  sometimes  think  a  good,  pure  impulse 
could  not  exist  there  a  minute.  And  lonely — I  real- 
ly think  New  York,  to  a  humdrum  Southerner,  is 

9 


NOBODY'S 

the  loneliest  place  on  earth.  I  am  afraid  the  life 
up  there  has  rather  soured  me.  When  I  saw  the 
old-fashioned  Virginia  houses  from  the  car-window 
yesterday,  I  knew  I  was  getting  back  to  God's 
country." 

Elwood  laughed  heartily.  "  You  almost  reconcile 
me  to  my  lot,"  he  declared.  "Well,  it  is  a  fact  that 
I've  never  been  to  New  York  without  getting  home- 
sick for  old  Lowndesville,  and  coming  back  sooner 
than  I  expected.  I  always  think  I  am  going  to  have 
a  good  time  up  there,  but  never  do.  I  suppose  it  is 
a  case  of  distance  lending  enchantment.  You  love 
the  South  because  you've  been  away  from  it  so  long. 
Before  the  summer  is  over  you'll  be  hungry  for  your 
noisy  fleshpots.  I  don't  know  but  what  your  sister 
is  right  about  you.  She  is  afraid  you  will  never  be 
happy  till  you  are  married.  From  your  last  letter 
I  judge  that  you  are  still  chasing  that  will-o'-the- 
wisp — the  ideal  woman  we  used  to  talk  about  at 
college.  You'd  better  look  out.  You  are  thirty- 
two  now,  and  they  say  the  fair  maid  is  seldom  met 
later  than  that.  I'd  have  thought  you'd  have  run 
across  her  among  the  thousands  you've  met  up 
there." 

"I  think  I'd  know  her  if  I  saw  her,"  Hartley 
answered,  with  a  smile,  "but  I  haven't  seen  her 
yet." 

"I  see  your  finish,  Gordon,  old  boy."  Elwood 
smiled.  "You  will  never  meet  that  ideal.  The  per- 
fect creature,  untarnished  by  the  giddy  world,  will 

10 


NOBODY'S 

never  cross  your  path.  She  simply  doesn't  exist  for 
you,  or  me,  or  any  other  man.  Men  think  women 
are  perfect  simply  because  they  want  them  so. 
You  never  saw  a  man  that  wanted  to  think  his  sweet- 
heart had  ever  been  kissed,  and  you  never  saw  a 
woman  that  ever  thought  there  was  anything  wrong 
in  it.     When  are  you  going  out  to  Fair  view?" 

"Right  away.  Sister  is  not  expecting  me  till  the 
day  after  to-morrow.  I  was  to  stop  in  Richmond, 
but  cut  that  out  and  came  on,  anxious  to  see  the 
home  folks." 

At  this  juncture  there  was  a  shuffling  sound  on  the 
sidewalk  outside,  and  an  aged  gentleman  wearing  a 
worn  frock-coat,  battered  silk  hat,  high  shirt-collar, 
and  black  necktie  appeared  at  the  door.  With  his 
heavy,  gold-headed,  ebony  cane  he  tapped  the  sill 
tentatively  almost  as  a  blind  man  might  before  en- 
tering. His  hair  and  mustache  were  snowy  white, 
as  was  the  imperial  on  his  quivering  chin. 

"It's  General  Lowndes,"  the  lawyer  whispered. 
"Don't  leave;  he  is  only  bringing  a  paper  I  have 
to  have.     I  have  charge  of  his  affairs." 

Out  of  respect  for  the  man's  age  and  apparent 
infirmity,  Hartley  stood  up  as  he  thumped  forward, 
his  keen  eyes  bent  on  Elwood,  a  frown  of  displeasure 
on  his  face  at  the  sight  of  a  stranger  in  the  office. 

Laying  a  folded  document  on  the  lawyer's  desk,  he 
said,  gruffly:  "Here's  the  paper;  don't  wait — put  it 
through.  Damn  them,  make  them  dance !  I'll  show 
them — the  whelps!" 

IX 


NOBODY'S 

"But,  General,  I  got  it  straight  this  morning," 
Elwood  protested,  as  gently  as  if  he  were  trying  to 
pacify  a  child.  ' '  I  got  it  from  their  lawyer  that  they 
will  be  able  to  settle  the  first  of  the  month,  and — " 

"Don't  presume  to  dictate  to  me!"  The  voice  of 
the  all-but-palsied  old  man  rose  and  cracked  in  his 
throat,  and  he  quivered  with  passion.  "I  don't  hire 
you  to  oppose  my  wishes.  Put  the  screws  on  them, 
and  make  them  pay  the  costs.  They  knew  they 
would  have  to  settle,  and  only  held  off  to  devil  me, 
as  all  of  them — you  included — are  bent  on  doing." 

"Very  well,  General,  very  well,"  Elwood  said, 
soothingly.     "I'll  attend  to  it." 

"Well,  what  did  you  begin —  What  did  you 
mean  by — "  His  flashing  eyes  shifted  to  Hartley's 
face,  and  he  broke  off  suddenly.  Something  almost 
like  a  shadow  of  regret  for  his  display  of  temper  crept 
into  his  eyes.  Seeing  Hartley's  respectful  attitude, 
he  half  bent  forward  in  a  bow  of  impulsive  old- 
fashioned  courtesy.  He  made  a  sweeping  gesture 
with  his  right  hand,  but  suddenly  checked  himself. 
The  genial  expression  on  his  withered  face,  splotched 
here  and  there  with  brown  and  little  ridges  of  hair 
which  his  razor  had  missed,  died  out. 

'"All  right" — his  fierceness  returning,  as  he  eyed 
Elwood — "attend  to  it,  and  don't  delay,  and  come 
to  me  afterward  with  a  cock-and-bull  story  about 
overlooking  it,  as  you  did  in  regard  to  the  Creston 
note." 

"It  will  be  all  right."     The  lawyer  made  a  half- 

12 


NOBODY'S 

comical  face  at  Hartley  as  the  old  gentleman 
thumped  out.  He  went  to  the  window  to  see  if  he 
was  well  away,  and  then  turned  back.  "I  have  to 
deal  with  him  as  I  would  with  a  child,"  he  ex- 
plained. ''I  manage  all  his  affairs,  and  he  is  like 
that  half  the  time.  If  he  had  any  heirs  they  would 
have  had  him  declared  incompetent  before  this.  He 
is  the  last  of  his  name  and  the  most  soured  and 
embittered  human  being  alive  to-day.  I'll  tell  you 
all  about  him  before  you  go  away.  He  has  had  a 
tragic  life.  It  seems  to  me  that  I've  heard  him 
say  he  knew  your  father  quite  well  before  the  war." 

"His  name  sounds  rather  familiar  to  me,"  Hartley 
answered,  "but  I  can't  quite  place  him." 

"I  have  charge  of  his  big  plantation  quite  near 
your  sister's,"  Elwood  said.  "The  old  family  man- 
sion is  there,  furnished  exactly  as  it  was  before  the 
war,  but  it  has  been  closed  for  eighteen  years.  He 
has  never  been  inside  of  it  in  all  that  time.  That's 
part  of  the  story,  by-the-way.  Two  old  family 
negroes  live  in  the  back  end  of  it.  I  go  out  there 
and  collect  the  rents,  and  overlook  the  place,  and 
fish  and  hunt.  Old  Uncle  Jake  and  Aunt  Jennie 
keep  one  of  the  rooms  in  order  for  me  and  furnish 
my  meals.  Now  that  you  are  to  be  at  Fairview  I'll 
go  oftener.  It  is  only  five  miles,  and  I  have  a  good 
horse.     Must  you  go  now?" 

"Yes."  Hartley  was  now  at  the  door,  his  bag  in 
hand.  "I've  ordered  a  livery-stable  rig.  I'm  rather 
anxious  to  see  them  all." 

13 


NOBODY'S 

"Well,  you  will  find  it  homelike,  certainly.  Miss 
Cynthia  had  all  your  old  family  furniture  and  library 
moved  from  Kentucky." 

Hartley  smiled.  "Judging  by  her  orders,  which 
I  had  filled  for  her  in  New  York,  she  has  greatly  in- 
creased the  library.  Books  are  her  hobby.  She  is 
a  great  girl.  She  always  said  she  didn't  care  where 
she  lived  so  long  as  she  could  read.  That  is  all  due 
to  her  education  in  Boston.  I  don't  think  one  can 
ever  get  New  England  quite  out  of  the  system.  I 
remember  how  we  teased  her  when  she  came  back 
after  her  graduation.  She  is  very  sensitive,  and  had 
conceived  the  idea,  or  rather  had  had  it  rubbed  into 
her,  that  she  was  eternally  disgraced  by  the  fact  that 
we  used  to  own  so  many  slaves.  She  confessed  to 
me  once  that  she  had  tried  to  conceal  it  from  her 
classmates,  but  they  got  on  to  it  and  made  her  life 
miserable  by  constantly  alluding  to  it  in  tones  of 
horror." 

"I've  noticed  that  quality  in  her,"  Elwood  re- 
marked. "She  has  the  reputation  on  her  place  of 
being  very  considerate  of  the  welfare  of  the  blacks. 
The  negroes  in  her  employment  are  certainly  lucky. 
Well,  you'll  see  me  out  that  way  very  soon." 


CHAPTER   III 

IT  was  about  four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  when 
Gordon  Hartley  was  put  down  at  the  entrance  of 
his  sister's  home.  To  his  surprise  no  one  was  in 
sight,  either  in  the  great  brick  house  or  about  the 
extensive,  well-kept  grounds.  He  sent  away  the 
vehicle  which  had  brought  him  from  LowTndesville, 
and,  leaving  his  valise  on  the  step,  he  went  up  on 
the  broad  veranda.  The  wide  door,  with  its  quaint 
Colonial  side-lights  and  fan-shaped  transom,  was 
open,  revealing  a  spacious  hall  that  was  well  car- 
peted and  contained  comfortable  chairs  and  antique 
divans. 

Hartley  rang  the  door-bell,  but  it  seemed  to  give 
out  no  sound  save  a  far-off  tinkle,  as  if  from  the 
extreme  rear  of  the  house.  While  he  waited  his 
glance  rested  on  the  landscape  toward  the  west. 
Field  after  field  of  growing  cotton,  corn,  and  wheat, 
separated  only  by  drainage  ditches,  met  his  eye,  as 
they  stretched  out  to  the  rugged  mountains,  above 
the  crest  of  which  the  sun  hung  like  a  ball  of  fire. 
He  rang  again  and  again,  and  then,  with  a  look  of 
perplexity  on  his  face,  he  entered  the  hall  and  be- 
gan to  look  about  him.  Doors  opened  out  on  both 
sides  of  the  massive  walnut  stairway,  and,  entering 


NOBODY'S 

the  first  on  his  right,  he  found  himself  in  the  library, 
a  long,  many-windowed  chamber,  the  walls  of  which 
were  lined  with  well-filled  bookshelves,  above  which 
hung  family  portraits  in  oil.  Those  of  his  father  and 
mother  looked  down  upon  him  from  above  the 
mantel  of  the  wide  fireplace  at  the  end  of  the  room. 
He  went  deeper  into  the  room,  his  step  muffled  by 
the  thick  Persian  rugs.  He  was  approaching  the 
long  mahogany  table  in  the  center  of  the  room  when 
he  saw  something  above  the  high  back  of  an  old 
rocking-chair,  the  front  of  which  was  turned  from 
him,  which  looked  like  a  mass  of  exquisite,  bronze- 
colored  hair.  Wondering,  he  stepped  noiselessly 
aside  and  saw,  seated  in  the  chair,  one  foot  beneath 
her,  the  other  swinging  to  and  fro,  a  beautiful  young 
girl.  She  was  reading.  A  slender  hand  with  white, 
tapering  fingers  rested  on  a  pink,  dimpled  cheek, 
the  other  held  an  open  book  before  her  long-lashed 
eyes.  He  stood  as  if  transfixed,  scarcely  allowing 
himself  to  breathe,  some  poetic  instinct  warning 
him  not  to  put  the  vision  to  flight.  He  saw  her 
breast,  under  its  light  covering,  heave,  and  heard  a 
sigh.  She  rested  the  book  on  her  lap,  gazed  pen- 
sively at  the  window  in  front  of  her,  and  sighed 
again.  Her  pretty,  curved  lips  trembled,  and  she 
seemed  to  be  whispering,  but  Hartley  heard  noth- 
ing. Suddenly  it  occurred  to  him  that  he  was  in- 
truding on  her  privacy  to  an  unpardonable  degree, 
and  was  about  to  speak  when  she  suddenly  glanced 
toward  him. 

x6 


NOBODY'S 

"Oh!"  she  exclaimed,  and  dropping  her  book  she 
stood  up,  her  face  turning  pale,  a  stare  almost  of 
alarm  fixed  on  him. 

"I  beg  your  pardon."  He  bowed  as  he  spoke. 
"I  rang  several  times,  but  failed  to  attract  atten- 
tion. No  one  seems  about.  I  wrote  my  sister 
that—" 

"Oh,"  the  girl  cried,  "I  know;  you  are — "  She 
checked  herself,  the  color  flowing  back  into  her 
cheeks  and  down  her  graceful  neck.  Her  wonderful 
violet  eyes  sank  to  the  ground.  "She  is — Miss 
Cynthia  is — in  fact,  everybody  but  me  ran  to  the 
woods  just  now.  Some  bees  had  swarmed,  and  they 
all  went  to  see  it.  Miss  Cynthia  was  not  looking  for 
— for  you  yet,  and — and  your  uncle  and  aunt  are  in 
Nashville  for  a  few  days." 

"I  see,  I  see,"  he  heard  himself  saying,  wholly 
charmed  by  the  music  of  her  voice.  "Yes,  I  came 
on  earlier  than  I  expected.  This  part  of  Tennessee 
is  very  beautiful  and  attractive." 

"Yes,  I  suppose  so,"  the  girl  stammered.  "I — I 
don't  really  know,  though,  for  I  have  never  lived 
anywhere  else." 

Seeing  that  she  was  still  under  embarrassment, 
he  was  casting  about  for  some  conversational  pre- 
text to  put  her  at  ease,  and  at  the  same  time  not 
give  her  an  excuse  for  leaving,  which  he  saw  that  she 
was  planning  by  her  furtive  glances  at  the  door. 
At  this  instant  she  started  to  place  her  book  on  the 
table,  but  it  slipped  from  her  inert  fingers  and  fell 

17 


NOBODY'S 

at  her  feet.  He  sprang  forward  and  bent  to  pick 
it  up,  but  she  had  started  to  do  the  same  thing,  and 
their  heads  met  in  what  would  have  been  a  con- 
siderable bump  but  for  the  great  mass  of  hair  on 
her  head. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  I  am  as  awkward  as  a  cow," 
he  cried,  reddening  in  his  own  turn.  The  book  was 
in  his  hand,  and  as  he  gave  it  to  her  he  noticed  the 
title  on  the  cover  and  recognized  it  as  that  of  a 
new  and  sensational  novel,  some  brief  notices  of 
which  he  had  read. 

''How  do  you  like  it?"  he  ran  on,  quickly,  won- 
dering who  she  could  be,  and  why  his  sister  had  not 
written  to  him  of  such  a  remarkably  pretty  and 
attractive  person.  He  decided,  while  waiting  on  her 
slow  reply  to  his  question,  that  she  must  be  the 
daughter  of  some  neighboring  planter  who  had  come 
in  only  to  spend  the  day,  or  perhaps  to  use  his 
sister's  books.  Her  silence  continuing,  he  decided 
that  he  had  asked  her  a  difficult  question,  and  was 
on  the  point  of  making  some  happier  observation 
when,  with  a  thoughtful  expression  in  her  eyes,  she 
said: 

"Do  you  mean  to  ask  if — if  I  like — if  I  enjoy  it  as 
a  story?" 

"Yes,"  he  returned.  "I  haven't  read  it  myself. 
I  don't  get  much  time  for  reading  fiction.  I  am 
usually  very  busy  at  work  in  the  bank,  and  when 
night  comes  I  am  too  tired  to  read." 

"It  is  very,  very  sad."     He  saw  her  pretty  shoul- 

18 


NOBODY'S 

ders  rise  and  fall,  and  a  little  tremor  shook  her  white 
throat,  to  which  she  put  her  hand.  "I  don't  know 
why  I  happened  to  pick  it  up.  I  didn't  really  know 
that  such  things  existed — the  world  is  so  big,  and 
there  are  so  many  phases  of  life.  Different  countries 
produce  different  customs  and  laws;  but  this,  this 
is  very,  very  sad — really,  it  is  heartrending." 

He  now  remembered  that  he  had  heard  her  sighing 
over  the  book,  and  regretted  that  he  had  led  the  talk 
to  an  unpleasant  theme.  Again  he  was  tempted  to 
ask  her  who  she  was,  but  there  seemed  to  be  no  open- 
ing for  such  a  question.  He  saw  her  cast  a  furtive 
glance  past  him  to  the  door,  and  then  a  look  of  re- 
lief overspread  her  face  as  gay  voices  in  speech  and 
laughter  were  heard  on  the  lawn  outside. 

"They  are  coming  back!"  she  eagerly  announced, 
and  running  to  a  window  she  drew  aside  the  curtain 
and  looked  out.  "Yes,  that  is  Miss  Cynthia  be- 
hind the  others.  Oh,  she'll  be  glad  —  she'll  be  so 
glad!" 

Hartley  went  to  her  side.  He  stood  close  to  her. 
The  slanting  rays  of  the  setting  sun  blazed  in  her 
hair,  turning  each  thread  to  burning  gold.  In  that 
full  light  her  beauty  fairly  filled  him  with  awe. 
The  violet  eyes  into  which  he  looked  seemed  strange, 
veiled  pools  of  mystery. 

"I  don't  see  any  one  at  all,"  he  said,  "and  yet 
I  hear  them." 

"They  are  behind  the  hedge,"  she  told  him,  "there 
on  the  right.    You'll  see  them  in  a  moment." 

3  19 


NOBODY'S 

' '  Yes,  yes, ' '  he  said.  ' '  Now  I  see  the  negroes,  and 
there  she  is." 

His  eyes  rested  for  a  moment  on  the  approaching 
group  and  the  slender  young  white  woman  bringing 
up  the  rear,  and  then  turning  to  speak  to  his  com- 
panion he  found  that  she  had  slipped  away.  He 
went  to  the  front  now  and  stood  on  the  veranda 
waiting  for  his  sister  to  turn  the  corner  of  the  house. 
He  saw  the  girl  to  whom  he  had  been  talking  crossing 
the  grass,  and  the  next  instant  she  and  his  sister  had 
met. 

"Oh!"  he  heard  Miss  Hartley  exclaim,  joyfully, 
"I'm  so  glad — thank  you,  Celeste.     Thank  you." 

1 ' Celeste V '  Hartley  echoed,  ' ' Celeste !"  And  then 
he  descended  to  the  ground  to  embrace  his  sister. 

"Oh,  you  dear  boy!"  she  cried,  as  she  threw  her 
arms  round  his  neck  and  kissed  him.  ' ' This  is  better 
than  ever.  I  was  just  wondering  how  I  could  pos- 
sibly pass  the  next  two  days,  and  here  you  are." 

They  went  up  the  steps  together.  Miss  Hartley 
was  about  five  years  older  than  her  brother ;  she  was 
decidedly  slender,  had  dark  eyes  and  hair,  and  a  brow 
that  was  indicative  of  marked  intellectual  power. 
She  was  inclined  to  sallowness  of  complexion  and 
was  of  a  somewhat  nervous  temperament. 

"Now  that  you  are  here,"  she  ran  on,  as  she  linked 
her  arm  in  his  and  led  him  into  the  big  parlor  op- 
posite the  library,  ' '  I  am  going  to  keep  you  as  long 
as  possible.  You  are  not  going  back  to  New  York 
this  summer." 

20 


NOBODY'S 

"I  don't  know  that  I  shall  care  to  soon."  His 
laugh  was  sincere  and  had  a  merry,  satisfied  ring  to 
it.     "I  feel  like  a  new  man  already." 

"I  knew  you  would  like  it — oh,  I  knew  it!"  Miss 
Hartley  cried  with  conviction.  "No  human  being 
ever  born  as  you  and  I  were  born  could  live  in  a  hive 
like  New  York  and  really  love  it.  The  last  time  I 
saw  you  there — I  didn't  let  you  see  how  I  felt,  but  I 
actually  cried  over  it." 

"Oh,  you  don't  mean  it!"  he  twitted  her,  as  he 
put  his  arm  round  her  and  kissed  her  again.  "The 
idea!" 

"I  did,"  she  reiterated.  "You  know  I  went  to 
your  rooms  one  day.  You  were  not  in,  the  elevator- 
man  said,  but  I  went  in  to  leave  a  note  for  you  and 
stayed  about  half  an  hour.  I  really  think  that  was 
the  gloomiest  period  of  my  life.  Oh,  the  place  was 
so  bare — so  desolate!  The  windows  looked  out  on 
nothing  but  an  ocean  of  slate,  tin,  brick,  stone,  and 
asphalt.  No  sound  came  in  but  roar,  din,  and 
clatter.  The  people  hurrying  along  the  street,  bump- 
ing together  like  ants,  looked  like  streams  of  mad- 
men. I  shut  the  window  to  cut  it  out.  But  the 
inside  was  even  worse.  The  only  familiar  things 
were  my  picture  and  papa's  and  mamma's  on  your 
bureau.  I  tried  to  put  your  things  in  order,  but  I 
couldn't.  They  were  wadded  and  stuffed  away  in 
all  sorts  of  nooks  and  corners.  It  looked  as  if  when 
you  were  in  doubt  as  to  what  to  do  with  a  thing  you 
threw  it  under  the  bed  or  left  it  in  the  bath-tub,     If 

21 


NOBODY'S 

I  could  force  you  to  sell  out  that  silly  bank -stock  I'd 
have  you  living  on  a  plantation  near  mine  like  a 
normal  Southern  gentleman." 

"Oh,  well,"  he  sighed,  "you  know,  Sis,  we  don't 
really  map  out  our  careers.  Father  tied  me  to  New 
York  before  he  died  and  practically  fixed  you  up  here. 
I  suppose  I'll  have  to  grin  and  bear  it,  but  really  I 
like  this.  I've  slept  like  a  log  ever  since  I  left  New 
York,  even  on  a  Pullman." 

They  were  now  seated  near  an  open  window. 

"Oh,  you  dear  boy,  you  have  made  me  so  happy." 
Miss  Hartley  folded  her  thin  hands  in  her  lap  and 
smiled.  "My  heart  actually  jumped  when  Celeste 
told  me  you  had  come.  I  am  glad  she  happened  to 
be  here,  otherwise  you  would  have  wondered  what 
could  have  depopulated  the  place  so  thoroughly." 

1 '  Celeste  ?"  he  repeated.  ' '  You  have  never  written 
me  about  her.  I  was  actually  dumfounded  when  I 
stumbled  over  her  in  one  of  the  big  chairs  in  the 
library  all  cuddled  up  over  a  book,  so  when — " 

"Oh,  that's  true.  I  remember  I  didn't  write 
about  her !"  Miss  Hartley's  face  lapsed  into  gravity. 
"I  kept  thinking  that  I  would,  but  put  it  off  till — 
— till — well,  till  the  whole  thing  seemed  so  hard  to 
explain  thoroughly  that  I  thought  I'd  wait  till  you 
came.  You  see,  brother,  I  don't  want  you  to  judge 
me  hastily,  and  the  girl  has  roused  my  sympathy  to 
such  an  extent  that —  I  don't  know  what  you  are 
going  to  say.  Aunt  and  uncle  have  argued  with  me 
over  it  till  it  has  got  to  be  a  sore  point.     I  know  I 

22 


NOBODY'S 

am  right — that's  all.  My  conscience  is  clear,  and 
that  is  the  main  thing.  I  admit,  though,  that  I  have 
rather  dreaded  your  verdict.  I  know  you  are  not 
narrow,  and  yet  many  who  are  not  supposed  to 
be  so  think  I  am  wrong,  but — " 

1 '  What  can  you  mean  ?"  he  broke  into  her  slow  flow 
of  words,  "and  all  about  this  girl.  Why,  Sis,  you 
are  not  like  yourself.  Who  is  she  ?  Where  did  she 
come  from?" 

Miss  Hartley  stood  up;  a  reluctant  smile  broke 
over  her  face  as  she  flicked  the  dust  from  the  lapel 
of  his  coat  with  her  dainty  fingers.  "I  am  not  go- 
ing to  explain  now."  She  was  firm  in  both  manner 
and  speech.  You  haven't  been  to  your  room  yet, 
and  it  is  almost  supper- time.  Run  up  and  brush 
yourself  from  head  to  foot  and  come  down.  Don't 
bring  the  subject  up  at  the  table,  either,  for  Cinda 
listens  to  every  word  that's  said.  After  supper  I'll 
start  at  the  very  beginning  and  lay  it  all  before  you. 
Now,  I  must  hurry.  I  know  what  you  like  to  eat, 
and  you  look  as  hungry  as  a  bear." 


CHAPTER  IV 

SUPPER  over,  Hartley  left  his  sister  giving  di- 
rections to  Cinda,  the  colored  cook,  in  the  long, 
many-windowed  dining-room,  and  strolled  out  on 
the  lawn  in  front  of  the  house.  To  the  left,  about 
two  hundred  yards  away,  stood  a  score  of  cabins 
occupied  by  the  negroes.  These  mere  huts  were 
grouped  like  a  diminutive  village  around  a  larger 
building  or  cottage  containing  five  or  six  rooms. 
This  central  structure  was  painted  white,  had  green 
lattice  blinds,and  was  enclosed  by  a  neat  picket-fence, 
and  had  been,  in  ante-bellum  days,  the  domicile  of 
the  overseer.  The  night  was  coming  on;  there  was 
no  moon,  and  only  a  few  stars  had  appeared. 

As  he  walked  about  on  the  grass  smoking  a  cigar, 
Hartley  found  himself  struck  by  the  likeness  of  the 
scene  to  that  of  his  old  home  in  Kentucky.  It  was 
alike  in  the  mountain  which  loomed  up  less  than  a 
mile  away,  in  the  level  fields  on  all  sides,  in  the  river 
half  a  mile  to  the  east,  and  the  mansion  itself  was  of 
the  same  type  as  the  house  in  which  he  was  born. 

He  could  scarcely  have  analyzed  it,  but  a  sensation 
more  restful  and  soothing  than  he  had  ever  ex- 
perienced was  on  him.  A  thousand  things  appealed 
to  him  —  the  flashing  fireflies  speeding  across  the 

24 


NOBODY'S 

grass;  the  snarling  of  crickets;  the  mooing  of  cattle; 
the  sylvan  tinkle  of  sheep-bells;  the  grunting  and 
squealing  of  pigs  in  the  pens  behind  the  cabins;  the 
lusty  crowing  of  cocks;  the  bark  of  dogs  near  and 
far;  the  blowing  of  horns;  the  neighing  of  horses; 
the  braying  of  a  donkey;  the  thump  of  a  banjo  in 
the  negro  quarter,  and  the  half -spoken,  half-sung 
plantation  melody. 

He  had  gone  back  to  the  house  and  was  strolling 
back  and  forth  on  the  long  veranda  when  his  sister 
joined  him.  She  gave  a  queer,  nervous  little  laugh 
as  she  put  her  arm  in  his  and  walked  along  with  him 
to  the  end  of  the  veranda  nearest  the  negro  quarter. 

''You  are  burning  up  with  impatience,  I  know," 
she  declared,  playfully  twitching  his  arm  and  smil- 
ing up  into  his  face.  "I  saw  it  in  your  eyes  all 
through  supper.  You  are  sure  I've  been  up  to  mis- 
chief— been  led  off  by  another  of  my  fads.  Well, 
this  is  different — very  different.  Now,  before  I  take 
a  step — before  I  tell  you  a  thing  about  Celeste,  for  my 
own  satisfaction,  and  to  prove  a  point  that  much 
hangs  upon,  you  must  put  on  your  thinking-cap  and 
answer  me  some  direct  questions." 

"  I  ?  What  have  I  got  to  do  with  the — the  young 
lady?" 

"Ah,  yes — 'the  young  lady.*  I  see.  So  far,*  so 
good.  The  words  are  yours.  Now  answer  me.  How 
long  were  you  with  her?" 

1 ' Only  a  few  minutes."  He  wondered  at  her  eager 
persistence.     "You  see,  she  was  absorbed  in  read- 

25 


NOBODY'S 

ing,  and  I  came  upon  her  before  she  knew  of  my 
approach." 

■ '  I  know,  but  did  you —  Of  course  you  must  have 
exchanged  some  words  with  her — in  fact,  I  gathered 
that  much  from  what  she  said  to  me.  What  did  you 
talk  about?  No,  no — answer  me;  you  are  on  the 
witness-stand,  and  I  am  a  lawyer,  and  a  good  one. 
I  am  bent  on  getting  at  the  bottom  of  this  thing," 
she  ended,  with  a  nervous  little  laugh.  "Tell  me 
exactly  what  you  talked  about." 

To  the  best  of  his  ability  Hartley  went  carefully 
over  all  that  had  passed  in  the  library,  his  wonder 
increasing  as  his  sister  kept  punctuating  his  words 
by  little  suppressed  ejaculations  of  evident  satis- 
faction. When  he  had  concluded,  she  bore  down 
firmly  on  his  arm. 

"Do  you  think  she  is  pretty?"  she  questioned,  still 
eagerly. 

"Decidedly — more  than  that,  she's  beautiful,"  he 
said,  with  enthusiasm. 

"And  what  else,  brother,  what  else?" 

"Look  here,  Sis,  what  ails  you?"  He  stared  at 
her,  half  serious,  half  amused. 

"Don't  ask  what  ails  me."  Miss  Hartley's  sud- 
den gravity  was  unmistakable.  ' '  Did  she  strike  you 
as  being,  well — above  the  ordinary?" 

"Decidedly.  Character  and  refinement  were 
written  all  over  her — in  her  face,  in  her  eyes.  Why, 
they  were  search-lights  of  thought.  I  have  never 
seen  anything  to  equal  their  haunting  depth.     She 

26 


NOBODY'S 

spoke  of  a  novel  she  was  reading  and  its  effect  on 
her  sympathies.     Her  voice  was  full  of  emotion.' ' 

"And  you  think  she  is —  She  would  strike  you 
as  being  refined  and — ladylike?" 

1 '  Why,  of  course."  He  was  groping  for  his  sister's 
meaning.  "At  a  guess,  I  shall  say  that  she  is  an 
aristocrat  from  the  tips  of  her  fingers  to  the  ends  of 
her  toes." 

"An  aristocrat!"  Miss  Hartley  sighed,  and  draw- 
ing him  to  the  balustrade  at  the  end  of  the  veranda 
she  paused,  her  glance  on  the  negro  quarter,  where 
the  lights  from  the  cabin  doors  and  tiny  windows 
fell  on  the  ground  and  reached  out  over  the  fields 
and  meadows.  "Brother,  I  am  going  to  shock  you, 
as  I  was  shocked.  I  wanted  your  frank  opinion 
before  you  heard  the  truth.  Gordon,  that  child  is 
the  daughter  of  a  woman  who,  while  she  is  almost 
white,  has  negro  blood  in  her  veins." 

Hartley  stared  almost  incredulously.  A  shudder 
passed  through  him,  as  if  an  icy  blast  had  struck  him. 
He  was  silent.  His  sister  released  his  arm  and  rested 
her  hands  on  the  balustrade. 

"Now  you  know  the  worst  of  it,"  she  went  on, 
calmly,  "but  I  have  not  finished.  There  are  other 
things  I  must  tell  you,  and  they  are  more  important 
than  you  may  think.  I  must  explain  how  I  got  to 
know  Celeste.  Her  mother  is  Mammy  Ansie,  one  of 
the  ex-slaves  of  old  General  Lowndes,  a  man  our 
father  used  to  know  very  well  and  met  often  in  New 
York  before  and  after  the  war.     You  passed  the 

27 


NOBODY'S 

family  mansion  as  you  came  here,  about  half  a  mile 
back  on  the  main  road,  a  deserted  old  house  even 
larger  than  this.  Before  the  war  it  was  one  of  the 
finest  homes  in  this  part  of  the  State.  Well,  when 
I  bought  this  plantation,  and  decided  to  superintend 
it  myself,  the  former  overseer's  cottage  in  the  negro 
quarter  was  vacant.  I  did  not  want  to  cause  jeal- 
ousy among  the  negroes  by  putting  any  of  them 
there,  so  I  had  it  locked  up.  But  one  day  Mam' 
Ansie  came  to  see  me  about  it.  She  said  she  had 
the  means  and  wanted  to  rent  it,  and  was  not  only 
willing  to  pay  any  price  I  asked,  but  would  make 
the  needed  improvements  at  her  own  expense." 

''And  you  let  her  have  it."  Hartley  had  not  re- 
covered from  the  shock  of  his  sister's  initial  revela- 
tion, and  spoke  mechanically.  He  struck  a  match 
on  the  balustrade  and  applied  it  to  his  cigar. 

"Yes,  and  she  moved  in  at  once.  I  was  here 
getting  my  own  things  placed  and  saw  the  wagons 
unloading  her  furniture  at  the  cottage.  I  was  sur- 
prised to  see  so  many  nice  old  articles,  so  many 
pictures,  books,  a  piano,  and  even  a  violin,  and 
boxes,  trunks,  and  chests.  I  had  heard  that  she 
was  a  favorite  of  her  former  mistress,  but  was  not 
prepared  for  such  a  display  of  luxuries.  But,  sur- 
prised as  I  was  over  her  and  her  belongings,  when  I 
saw  her  daughter,  then  only  about  sixteen,  my  as- 
tonishment certainly  increased. 

' '  I  met  the  girl  one  day  by  accident  at  the  spring 
below  the  house,  and  drew  her  into  conversation. 

28 


NOBODY'S 

I  don't  know  how  to  describe  that  talk.  I  was  fairly 
bewildered  by  the  discoveries  I  made  in  the  first  few 
minutes.  She  talked — timid  as  she  was — most  cor- 
rectly, and  with  the  sweetest  accent.  I  discovered 
that  Mam'  Ansie  was  bringing  her  up  exactly  as  if 
she  were  wholly  white.  Celeste  had  never  been  al- 
lowed to  associate  with  the  negroes  in  the  neigh- 
borhood. In  one  way  or  another,  her  mother  had 
secured  white  teachers  for  her,  and  the  child's  use 
of  words,  range  of  ideas,  and  handwriting  were  re- 
markable. I  gathered  that  she  was  most  fond  of 
reading,  and  that  she  had  not  access  to  many  books, 
so,  having  my  large  library,  I  offered  to  lend  her 
some  books.  I  don't  think  I  ever  saw  such  a  look 
of  delight  on  a  human  face.  She  was  so  moved  that 
her  lips  trembled  and  her  eyes  filled  with  tears,  and 
for  a  moment  she  could  not  speak.  The  next  morn- 
ing she  came  as  I  had  asked  her  to  do,  and  I  told  her 
to  look  through  the  library  and  help  herself.  Well, 
to  shorten  my  story,  that  was  the  beginning.  She 
fairly  devoured  my  books,  and  discussed  some  of  them 
with  me  in  a  most  thorough  and  penetrating  way.  I 
am  not,  with  all  my  praise,  doing  the  child  full  jus- 
tice, either.  There  is  something  about  her  that  I 
can't  find  words  to  express.  It  seems  that  her 
isolation  from  both  the  whites  and  blacks  has  in 
some  way  set  her  aside  from,  if  not  raised  her  above, 
most  other  human  beings.  She  is  unique,  original, 
and  deep.  She  does  nice  needlework  and  makes 
good  water-color  pictures.     In  the  most  indifferent 

29 


NOBODY'S 

way  she  has  written  verses  that  were  beautiful  and 
almost  faultless.  She  is  musical,  too.  It  seems 
that  some  one  during  the  war  gave  Mam'  Ansie  a 
fine  old  violin,  and  Celeste  learned  to  play  on  it. 
She  has  never  played  for  me.  She  seems  to  be  al- 
most morbidly  sensitive  about  it,  regarding  it,  I 
think,  as  a  part  of  her  inner  self;  but  I've  heard  her 
play,  and  you  will,  too.  She  plays  alone  when  she 
thinks  no  one  is  listening.  She  seems  to  improvise 
the  airs,  and  they  are  like  nothing  I  have  ever  heard, 
sometimes  being  as  original  as  the  warbling  of  a 
bird.  You  will  hear  her  some  night.  I  have  no- 
ticed that  she  plays  generally  when  she  is  sad." 

1 '  Sad  ?   Then  she  is  sad  V '  Hartley  said,  tentatively. 

"Yes,  yes;  that  is  the  tragedy  of  it.  She  is  just 
now  waking  up,  comparing  herself  to  others — ob- 
serving, inquiring,  reading,  and  pondering.  There 
are  moments  when  she  seems  to  throw  it  all  off  and 
laugh  as  merrily  as  a  happy  child,  but  again  it  seems 
to  descend  upon  her  like  a  great  weight." 

"I  thought  she  looked  sad  when  I  saw  her," 
Hartley  said.  "She  was  sighing,  almost  sobbing, 
over  the  book  she  was  reading.  The  expression  of 
her  face  haunts  me  now.  Really,  it  is  pitiful,  isn't 
it?" 

"I  am  so  glad  you  are  sympathetic,"  Miss  Hart- 
ley said,  in  pleased  accents.  "I've  had  so  much 
criticism  from  the  people  in  the  neighborhood  that 
I  got  to  thinking  that  perhaps  even  you — but  you 
understand  and  wouldn't  blame  me,  would  you?" 

30 


NOBODY'S 

"How  could  I?"  Hartley  answered.  "You  are 
only  doing  your  duty  as  you  see  it.  Besides,  the 
whole  situation  is  most  interesting.  What  I'd  like 
to  know  is  how  her  mother  supplies  her  with  so  many 
luxuries  and  has  shielded  her  so  carefully." 

"That  is  one  of  the  mysteries."  Miss  Hartley 
caught  the  lapel  of  her  brother's  coat  and  held  it 
caressingly.  ' '  In  the  first  place,  Mam'  Ansie  either 
has  some  means,  or — or  (now,  I  am  only  guessing) — 
or  some  one  is  supplying  her.  She  must  have  spent 
several  hundred  dollars  on  the  overseer's  cottage. 
I  went  there  once  when  Celeste  was  confined  to  the 
house  with  a  bad  cold,  and  found  the  place  delight- 
fully comfortable  and  well  arranged.  Celeste's  room 
was  as  nice  in  every  way  as  any  room  in  this  house. 
The  floors  were  covered  with  good  rugs,  the  furniture 
was  fine,  and  there  were  some  nice  engravings  on  the 
walls.  On  that  day  I  discovered  something  that 
seemed  so  odd  that  I  lay  awake  nearly  all  the  next 
night  trying  to  understand  it." 

"You  are  making  me  curious,"  Hartley  said,  in  a 
would-be  playful  tone.  His  cigar  had  gone  out  again. 
He  started  to  strike  another  match,  but  forgot  it  as 
he  searched  his  sister's  face  in  the  starlight. 

"Brother,  I  discovered  that  Mam'  Ansie  treated 
her  daughter  exactly  as  if  Celeste  were  her  mistress 
rather  than  own  child.  The  table  in  the  dining- 
room  was  arranged  for  supper,  and  there  was  only 
one  chair  at  it,  one  plate,  one  cup  and  saucer,  one 
knife  and  fork,  and  one  napkin.     And  on  the  table 

3i 


NOBODY'S 

in  the  kitchen  I  saw  Mam'  Ansie's  plate  and  other 
things." 

"Were  you  quite  sure  about  that?"  Hartley  in- 
quired— "quite  sure  that  it  was  not  accidental?" 

"Absolutely,  for  I  have  since  seen  many  other 
things  of  the  same  sort.  Mam'  Ansie's  manner  to 
her  is  that  of  absolute  and  almost  servile  respect. 
You  would  not  blame  Celeste  for  allowing  it  to  be 
as  it  is  if  you  understood  the  situation.  You  see, 
it  has  gone  on  that  way  ever  since  she  can  remem- 
ber, and  she  knows  nothing  else." 

"Strange,  isn't  it?"  the  young  man  said,  seating 
himself  on  the  balustrade  and  drawing  his  sister  to 
a  seat  beside  him.     ' '  Well,  what  do  you  make  of  it  ?" 

"I  can  make  nothing  of  it,  unless  I  simply  guess, 
and  that  isn't  satisfying." 

"Well,  what  do  you  guess?'1  Hartley  pursued, 
eagerly.     "I  can't  even  go  that  far." 

"Well,  I  have  gathered,  Gordon,  that  Mam'  Ansie 
is,  like  all  of  her  race,  superstitious  about  promises 
made  to  persons  about  to  die.  You  know  all  negroes 
believe  that  if  an  agreement  made  with  a  dead  per- 
son is  broken,  the  dead  person  will  haunt  the  living 
who  failed  to  keep  faith." 

"Yes,  I  know  that  to  be  true,"  Hartley  declared. 
"Oh,  I  think  I  see  your  point.  You  think,  maybe, 
that  Mam'  Ansie — " 

"Yes,  that  Celeste's  father  must  have  been  of 
the  highest  class  of  white  people.  Mam'  Ansie  told 
me  herself  that  he  was  dead.     You  see,  the  money 

3? 


NOBODY'S 

may  have  come  from  him ;  he  may  have  known  the 
child,  or  heard  of  her  beauty  and  intelligence,  and 
made  provision  for  her.  He  may,  you  see,  have 
exacted  some  sort  of  promise  from  Mam'  Ansie  as 
to  the  girl's  rearing  that  she  is  carrying  out  to  the 
letter.  Celeste  has  inadvertently  dropped  some 
curious  hints  of  her  mother's  character.  She  says 
Mam'  Ansie  often  gets  up  in  the  night  and  cries,  and 
pleads  and  renews  promises  to  some  imaginary 
creature." 

"Strange,  strange!"  Hartley  cried.  "I  can  see 
how  a  man  of  refined  feeling  would  surfer  torments 
over  consequences  like  these.  Have  you  any  idea 
who  he  was,  or — " 

"Yes,"  the  lady  broke  in.  "I  have  a  faint  sus- 
picion, but  I  am  not  willing,  on  such  meager  evidence 
as  I  have,  to  bring  his  name  into  the  matter.  The 
man  I  am  thinking  about  is  dead,  and  he  knew  Mam' 
Ansie  when  she  was  young  and,  evidently,  attractive, 
but  I  shall  not  accuse  him  even  to  you.  Now, 
brother,  I  must  explain  my  own  trouble  in  the 
matter." 

"Your  trouble!     Why,  I  don't  see  that  you — " 

"It  is  worrying  the  life  out  of  me,"  Miss  Hartley 
declared  with  a  sigh.  "The  thing  has  taken  hold  of 
me  like  a  horrible  nightmare.  I  suppose  I  absorbed 
some  of  the  New  England  ideas  on  the  race  question 
while  I  was  there  at  school.  I  try  not  to  lose  my 
balance.  I  try  to  look  at  it  from  the  standpoint  of 
our  Southern  relatives  and  friends,  but  I  can't — I 

33 


NOBODY'S 

simply  can't.  It  clings  to  me,  and  digs  into  me 
constantly.  I  wake  up  in  the  dead  of  night  and 
think,  think,  think  of  that  poor,  lovable  child,  and 
the  awful  future  that  lies  before  her.  You  know 
many  persons  hold  that  great  obstacles  are  put  in 
our  way  to  test  and  strengthen  our  moral  characters. 
That  idea  has  taken  hold  of  me  till  it  amounts  to 
an  obsession — the  thought  that  I — a  descendant  of 
slave-owners — may  have  been  selected  to  do  justice 
in  this  case,  to  work  out  this  particular  problem." 

''Problem?  What  problem?"  The  young  man 
groped. 

"Why,  the  problem  as  to  what  is  to  become  of  her. 
She  is  a  fair  young  prisoner  bound  and  barred — 
exiled  for  life  among  a  people  to  which  she  really 
belongs  no  more  in  sympathy  and  nature  than  you 
or  I." 

"I  see  your  point" — Hartley's  mental  eyes  were 
viewing  the  fair  young  girl  as  she  had  stood  before 
him  in  the  library — "and  it  is  well  taken.  Sis,  you 
are  right." 

"Oh,  I'm  so  glad  you  don't  scold  me!"  Miss 
Hartley  cried  in  accents  of  relief.  She  put  her  hand 
on  her  brother's  brow  and  gently  stroked  his  hair. 
"I  would  have  written  to  you  about  it.  I  tried  to 
do  it  several  times,  but  somehow  I  could  not  say  all 
I  wanted  to  say.  I  was  afraid,  too,  that,  without 
seeing  her,  you'd  not  understand.  Don't  you  see, 
Gordon,  that  this  may  be  possible?  Granting  that 
there  may  be  truth  in  the  statement  that  God  act- 

34 


NOBODY'S 

ually  intended  the  black  race  to  be  lower  in  the 
scale  of  development  than  the  white,  is  it  not  rea- 
sonable to  suppose  that  there  would  be  a  point — a 
point  at  which  the  black  blood  would  wholly  van- 
ish ?  Mam'  Ansie  herself  is  so  white  that  she  would 
pass  anywhere  as  a  pure  Caucasian,  and  isn't  it 
possible  that  her  child  has  absolutely  lost  every 
trace  of  the  African  blood?" 

"Yes,  perhaps.  It  certainly  looks  reasonable," 
Hartley  made  slow  reply,  "but,  still,  Sister,  I  don't 
see  why  you  are  taking  it  so  much  to  heart." 

"It  may  be  silly  of  me,"  the  lady  said,  with  a 
quaver,  "but  I  can't  help  it.  It  has  grown  on  me 
day  by  day.  You  see,  I  encouraged  her  to  use  the 
library,  and  in  that  way  have  seen  her  often.  Once, 
while  Aunt  Mary  was  in  Louisville  on  a  visit  to  our 
cousins,  I  was  ill.  Celeste  heard  of  it  and  came  and 
took  care  of  me.  She  was  so  sweet  and  gentle,  so 
sympathetic,  refined,  and  sensitive,  that  my  heart 
went  out  to  her.  After  that  I  loved  her — not  as  a 
daughter  of  an  ex-slave,  but  as  a  whole-souled 
woman — a  suffering  friend." 

"Suffering?"  Hartley  echoed. 

"Yes,  suffering,  for  she  is  most  unhappy.  As  I 
said  just  now,  she  is  waking  to  her  condition.  She  is 
weighing  things,  and  comparing  herself  to  others. 
Then  she  has  been  roughly  treated — openly  insulted." 

"Insulted?"     Hartley  felt  the  blood  of  indigna- 
tion rise  to  his  brow.     ' '  Surely  no  one  would  be  low 
enough,  helpless  as  she  is,  to — to — " 
4  35 


NOBODY'S 

"Oh,  that  is  part  of  the  whole  thing.' '  Miss 
Hartley  sighed.  "There  is  where  my  responsibility 
comes  in.  Yes,  she  has  been  spoken  to  as  harshly 
as  if  she  were  a  galley-slave,  and  I  was  the  indirect 
cause  of  it.  This  is  how  it  came  about.  After  her 
sweet  care  of  me  during  my  illness  she  used  to 
come  over  and  we'd  paint  and  sketch  together.  Well, 
one  day  when  she  was  with  me  it  was  raining,  and 
when  Cinda  came  and  told  me  dinner  was  ready  I 
saw  that  Celeste  would  get  wet  if  she  attempted  to 
go  home,  and  for  the  first  time  I  asked  her  to  dine 
with  me.  I  did  it  on  the  spur  of  the  moment  with- 
out looking  ahead  or  dreaming  of  disagreeable  con- 
sequences. She  accepted  as  unconscious  of  doing 
anything  unusual  as  if  she  had  dined  among  white 
people  all  her  life.  She  sat  at  the  table  in  the  most 
graceful  way  and  chatted  and  laughed  with  the 
greatest  ease.  Her  manners  were  absolutely  per- 
fect. You  know  the  old-time  negroes  were  our  best 
teachers  of  such  things,  and  Mam'  Ansie,  no  doubt, 
has  been  very  careful  in  training  her  daughter. 
Well,  I  thought  no  more  about  the  incident  after- 
ward till  it  came  to  me  from  an  unexpected  source. 
We  had  a  yellow  girl,  Polly,  as  housemaid  at  that 
time.  I  sent  her  away  immediately,  for  she  was 
jealous  of  Celeste  and  made  trouble.  She  had  hap- 
pened to  come  in  the  dining-room  while  Celeste  and 
I  were  at  the  table  and  she  at  once  told  it.  It 
must  have  spread  like  wild-fire.  The  better  class  of 
white  people  thought  little  about  it,  I  believe,  but 

36 


NOBODY'S 

the  mountain  men  and  women  could  talk  of  nothing 
else.  There  was  a  regular  flood  of  gossip.  It  was 
reported  I  was  encouraging  Mam'  Ansie  to  elevate 
her  daughter  into  white  society,  and  she  got  open 
threats  of  whippings  and  tar  and  feathers  and  banish- 
ment from  home." 

"Ah,  I  begin  to  see."  Gordon  Hartley  stroked 
his  smooth  chin  in  perplexity.  "They  won't  let  you 
be  kind  and  humane.  But  they  didn't — they  didn't 
actually  abuse  the  girl." 

"Didn't  they?"  His  sister  laughed  satirically. 
1  '  She  was  on  the  road  coming  from  the  store  one  day 
when  four  or  five  mountaineers  on  wagons  loaded 
with  cotton  stopped  her.  She  tried  to  pass,  but  they 
got  down  and  stood  around  her.  She  wore  a  sun- 
bonnet,  and  tried  to  draw  it  over  her  eyes,  but  they 
snatched  it  off  and  stood  taunting  her  about  eating 
with  white  people  and  wanting  to  know  why  she 
did  it.  They  called  her  vile  names  she  had  never 
heard;  they  threatened  her  life.  She  finally  got 
away  from  them  and  ran  home.  I  happened  to  be 
in  the  negro  quarter  at  the  time  and  met  her.  To 
the  day  of  my  death  I'll  remember  the  awful  white 
look  in  her  face,  the  piteous  stare  in  her  eyes.  She 
was  speechless,  and  a  moment  later  fainted  in  my 
arms." 

Hartley  sat  with  rigid  features  staring  into  his 
sister's  upturned  eyes.  He  gulped,  fumbled  in  his 
pocket  for  a  cigar,  and  bit  off  the  tip  of  it.  Hot  fury 
was  running  like  streams  of  fire  through  his  every 

37 


NOBODY'S 

vein.  In  the  fear  of  betraying  his  emotion  he  re- 
mained quiet. 

"Now  you  understand,  don't  you,  Gordon?"  his 
sister  asked.  "Now  you  see  why  I  feel  duty  bound 
to — to  do  something.  God  only  knows  what  it  will 
be,  but  I  must — I  simply  must  try.  The  thing  has 
been  laid  before  me  by  a  Higher  Power." 

"Yes,  yes,  I  see  it  now,  and  it  is  a  problem." 
Hartley  puffed  at  his  cigar.  "As  little  as  I  have 
seen  of  her,  there  is  absolutely  no  place  for  her 
among  the  blacks." 

"And  none  among  us — that  is  the  pity  of  it,"  his 
sister  sighed.  "If  she  were  bold  or  forward  or 
coarse,  I  wouldn't  care,  but  she  is  the  gentlest,  sweet- 
est child  I  ever  saw.  I  can't  think  of  her  as  having 
a  taint  of  black  blood — I  simply  can't." 

There  was  a  sound  of  voices  on  the  lawn,  and  in 
the  light  of  the  rising  moon  four  dusky  figures  stole 
across  the  grass  to  some  rustic  benches  near  the 
terrace.  Miss  Hartley  peered  at  them  for  a  mo- 
ment, then,  hearing  the  tinkling  of  a  triangle  and 
the  twang  of  a  guitar,  she  broke  into  a  pleased 
laugh. 

"It  is  Pomp  and  his  musicians — Sam  and  Dingo 
and  Frank.  They  are  going  to  serenade  you.  I 
might  have  known  it." 

A  prelude  was  played  on  a  guitar,  mouth-organ, 
triangle,  and  bones,  and  then  the  quartette  began 
to  sing  the  "Old  Kentucky  Home."  They  did  it 
decidedly  well  in  the  half -spoken,  half -chanted  man- 

38 


NOBODY'S 

ner  of  the  plantation  blacks,  and  both  Hartley  and 
his  sister  clapped  their  hands  in  approval. 

"I  shall  leave  you  now,"  Miss  Hartley  said.  "I 
am  going  up-stairs,  and  I'll  put  a  light  in  your 
room  as  a  signal  of  appreciation.  They  always  ex- 
pect it,  and  will  sing  till  daybreak  if  they  don't  see 
it.  Good-night;  I'll  meet  you  at  breakfast."  She 
drew  his  head  down  with  both  hands  and  kissed 
him.  "I  am  not  going  to  worry  so  much  now  that 
you  are  here,"  she  said,  tremulously.  "I  feel  like  I 
have  a  good,  strong  arm  to  lean  on." 

The  music  continued  after  she  had  gone.  The 
yellow  light  of  a  lamp  flashed  out  from  his  window 
above  and  lay  on  the  dewy  grass.  The  song  was  a 
tender  lullaby  which  he  had  not  heard  since  he  was 
a  child.     It  moved  him  queerly  to-night. 

"  Ba,  ba,  black  sheep!    has  you  got  any  lamb? 
Yes,   'way  down  in  de  valley. 
An'  de  buzzards  en  de  flies  is   er-pickin'  out  'is  eyes, 
An'  de  po'  lill  thing  cry,  'Mammy!'" 

Hartley  smoked  till  the  music  was  over.  He  heard 
the  negroes  laughing  and  teasing  one  another  as  they 
strolled  away  toward  the  "quarter." 

"Dear,  dear  old  Sis!"  he  mused,  tenderly.  "She 
has  a  great  heart.  This  thing  has  laid  hold  of  her 
and  is  worrying  her.  Who  knows,  it  may  worry 
me?  I  have  only  seen  the  girl  once,  and  yet  her 
face,  her  eyes,  her  voice  haunt  me  as  nothing  else 
ever  did." 

39 


NOBODY'S 

"The  buzzards  en  de  flies  is  er-pickin'  out  'is 
eyes."  The  strain  throbbed  in  his  brain.  "An'  de 
po'  lill  thing  cry,   'Mammy!'" 

Throwing  his  cigar  away,  he  turned  into  the  silent 
hall  and  ascended  the  stairs.  His  windows  looked 
out  on  the  negro  quarter.  In  the  moonlight  he 
descried  Mam'  Ansie's  cottage  in  its  group  of  lowly 
cabins,  and  he  gazed  at  it  thoughtfully. 

"Poor  child!"  he  said.     "Poor  child!" 


CHAPTER  V 

THE  next  morning  Hartley  was  waked  by  voices 
beneath  his  window,  and,  rising,  he  looked  out. 
On  the  greensward  below  two  mulattoes,  Pomp  and 
Dingo,  stood  disputing  and  shaking  their  fists. 

"You's  er  blame  fool!"  Pomp,  the  taller  of  the 
two,  was  saying  in  tones  of  high  contempt.  "You 
ain't  fittin'  ter  wait  on  er  city  gen 'man.  You 
wouldn't  know  how  ter  lay  out  'is  does,  er  shine  'is 
shoes,  er  press  de  wrinkles  out'n  'is  pants.  De 
trouble  wid  er  backwoods  nigger  lak  you  is  you 
ain't  never  been  nowhar  mongst  high-up  white 
folks.  Didn't  I  go  wid  young  Marse  Lowndes  clean 
to  Louisville,  en  stay  dar  wid  'im  weeks  en  weeks 
on  er  stretch  'fo'  he  was  shot  down  in  'is  tracks? 
Didn't  he  tell  me  I  was  de  bes'  body- servant  he  ever 
had,  even  when  he  was  off  at  Harvel  College?" 

"Huh,  what  you  done  fer  Marse  Lowndes,  so  fur 
back,  er  even  fer  de  Gineral,  ain't  got  nothin'  ter 
do  wid  young  miss's  brother.  You  gittin'  old  an' 
shaky.  You  cayn't  shave  'im  clean,  en  you  know 
it.  I  ain't  wuk  two  years  in  er  town  barber-shop 
fer  nothin'." 

"You  didn't  shave  ez  much  ez  er  cat  in  dat 
barber -shop!"   Pomp  retorted,  as  he  brought  his 

41 


NOBODY'S 

hand  down  squarely  on  his  rival's  shoulder.  "I 
know,  kase  I  seed  you  blackin'  boots  dar.  Oh,  you 
des  es  well  shet  up,  yo'  bazoo!  I'm  gwine  up  ter 
young  marster's  room  en  tell  'im  de  risin'-bell  is 
rung,  en  ef  you  f oiler  me  I'll  kick  you  down  dem 
sta'rs  so  quick  you  won't  know  what  struck  you." 

"I  ain't  gwine  ter  hat  no  trouble  wid  you,  Pomp," 
Dingo,  after  a  significant  pause,  was  heard  to  say. 
"I  done  heard  young  miss  tell  Elvira  dat  you  try 
ter  boss  us  all,  big  en  lill,  en  you  so  tricky  en  sech 
a  big  liar  in  de  barg'an  dat  de  ain't  no  use  tryin' 
ter  git  roundst  you." 

Pomp  emitted  a  resounding  and  melodious  guffaw, 
and  Hartley  saw  him  bending  forward,  his  hand 
over  his  wide  mouth  and  shaking  with  laughter. 
"Did  Miss  Cynth'a  say  dat,  Dingo?  Did  she? 
Well,  well,  dat  is  funny.  But  so  long;  I  must  see 
what  Marse  Gordon  want." 

A  moment  later  there  was  a  soft  step  on  the 
landing  at  the  door  and  a  cautious,  tentative 
rap. 

"Come  in!"  Hartley  called  out,  and  the  old- 
fashioned,  white  porcelain  knob  turned,  and  a  sly, 
swarthy  face  appeared. 

"Good-mornin',  young  marster,"  Pomp  said, 
seductively.  "Young  miss  done  up  en  hat  'er  hoss 
raidy  fer  er  ride  somers'.  De  fust  bell  done  rung, 
en  ef  you  want  suppen  good  en  hot,  fresh  fum  de 
cook-stove,  you  better  git  up." 

"Oh,  it's  late,  is  it?"  Hartley  said,  quite  enjoying 

42 


NOBODY'S 

the  situation,  which  reminded  him  forcibly  of  his 
old  home -life  in  Kentucky. 

"Yasser,  marster;  en  young  miss  say — she  did, 
suh,  dat  bein'  as  I  was  de  only  one  on  de  place  spry 
enough,  en  wid  'sperunce  in  waitin'  on  gen 'men — 
dat  I  better  come  up  en  lay  out  yo'  things  en  fresh 
'em  up  er  lill." 

"Oh,  I  see,  you  are  to  be  my  body- servant?" 
Hartley  humored  him  with  a  smile  of  amuse- 
ment. 

"Yasser,  dat's  it,  suh!"  the  negro  cried.  He  was 
in  the  room  now,  and  eying  Hartley's  trunk  which, 
unstrapped  and  locked,  stood  against  the  wall. 
"Ef  you'll  gimmy  de  keys,  suh,  I'll  git  out  yo' 
things  en  hang  'em  up  ter  git  de  wrinkles  out." 

"You  can  attend  to  that  after  breakfast,"  Hartley 
said.  "You  may  dust  off  my  suit  and  shoes  now. 
I'm  going  down  right  away.  I  shave  myself,  so  that 
needn't  bother  you." 

"All  right,  suh,"  Pomp  cried,  and  he  set  to  work 
at  once,  kneeling  at  a  window,  Hartley's  boots  and  a 
brush  and  blacking  before  him.  "I'm  gwine  ter  fix 
um  so  you  kin  see  yo'self  in  um,  suh." 

"All  right,  Pomp."  Hartley  stood  at  the  window 
and  looked  out  on  the  landscape.  The  morning  was 
glorious.  The  sun  seemed  to  shine  through  a  thin 
bluish  veil  that  lent  vague  enchantment  to  the 
scene.  As  far  as  the  eye  reached  the  fields  of  grow- 
ing cotton,  wheat,  corn,  and  tobacco  stretched  out 
toward  the  distant  mountains,  which,  in  the  morn- 

43 


NOBODY'S 

ing  light,  appeared  as  blue  as  the  cloudless  sky 
above  their  rugged  peaks. 

"And  to  think  that  I  stayed  away  from  it  so  long," 
the  young  man  mused.  "I  thought  it  would  be 
strange  and  unpleasant,  and  yet  it  is  quite  the  same. 
By  George,  I  love  it!" 

Descending  to  the  dining-room  a  few  minutes 
later,  he  found  a  delicious  breakfast  awaiting  him. 
On  a  snowy  cloth  stood  a  great  bowl  of  fresh, 
fragrant  roses  from  the  garden.  There  was  de- 
licious fried  chicken,  delicately  brown;  eggs;  ba- 
con from  the  smoke-house;  hot  biscuits  and  cof- 
fee. 

Cinda,  the  portly  mulattress  who  brought  it  in 
with  an  abashed  smile  and  even  a  step  of  solicitude, 
had  a  message  for  him. 

"Young  miss  say  tell  you,  suh,"  she  said,  as  she 
poured  his  coffee  and  placed  the  cream  and  sugar 
near  him,  "dat  she  was  powerful  sorry  not  ter 
'company  you  at  yo'  fus'  breakfast,  but  she  was  des 
bleeged  ter  ride  over  de  urr  side  de  river  ter  settle 
er  row  betwixt  some  niggers  en  low  white  trash. 
Dey  don't  know  whar  de  line  runs  twixt  um.  Young 
miss  rented  some  cotton -ground  ter  de  trash,  en  dey 
creepin'  up  on  her  niggers.  Er  man  come  'fo  day 
en  tol'  young  miss  ef  she  wanted  ter  keep  down  er 
wholesale  lynchin'  she'd  better  git  dar  early  en  lay 
down  de  law.  He  say,  lessen  she  come,  young  miss 
wouldn't  hat  any  hands  lef  ter  pick  cotton  fer  'er 
dis  fall." 

44 


NOBODY'S 

"I  see " — Hartley  smiled — "and  which  side  do  you 
think  is  right,  Cinda?" 

"Nurr  one,  suh.  I  bound  you  bofe  sides  itchin' 
fer  er  row  en  ain't  tryin'  ter  'member  whar  de  line 
run.  You  listen  ter  me,  young  marster — dey  say  de 
war  is  pas'  en  gone,  but  dey'll  be  a  nurr  one  twixt 
white  en  black  in  dese  self-same  mountains  'fo'  long. 
Bofe  sides  gittin'  mo'  en  mo'  uppity.  De  trash  hate 
de  niggers  kase  dey  is  niggers  en  kin  make  good 
money,  en  de  niggers  hate  de  trash  kase — well,  kase 
dey  is  trash,  en  who  blame  um  ?     Not  me." 

Hartley  smiled  over  the  characteristic  viewpoint 
of  the  woman.  She  had  gone  to  the  kitchen  for 
some  hot  griddle-cakes  and  Southern  cane  molasses. 
Through  the  windows,  the  small-paned  sashes  of 
which  were  up  as  high  as  they  could  go,  and  with 
the  green  blinds  thrown  back,  he  caught  inviting 
glimpses  of  the  flower-garden  at  the  side  of  the 
house.  There  were  groups  of  boxwood,  magnolia, 
and  arbor-vitae  trees,  dank  plots  of  grass  on  which 
stood  rustic  benches.  There  was  a  hammock  made 
of  barrel-staves  and  rope,  a  summer-house,  to  the 
latticed  walls  of  which  clung  a  thick  growth  of  ivy 
and  blooming  jasmine. 

Breakfast  over,  and  lighting  a  cigar,  he  went  into 
the  garden.  The  seductive  coolness  and  quiet  of 
the  spot,  the  fragrance  of  the  air,  well  suited  his 
mood.  He  hummed  an  old  tune  and  smiled  over 
the  thought  that  he  could  not  remember  having  felt 
so  elated  during  all  his  stay  in  the  metropolis. 

45 


NOBODY'S 

"Home,  home,"  he  kept  saying.  "There  is  no 
place  like  it.  I  am  afraid  I  wasn't  born  for  modern 
progress.  I  love  this.  I  can't  help  it — I  love  it.  It 
is  like  a  sweet  thing  long  torn  out  of  my  life  and 
suddenly  restored.  Sis  doesn't  know  it,  but  she 
has  spoiled  my  business  career.  I'd  as  soon  go  to 
jail  as  back  to  that  bank  and  those  musty  papers 
and  that  feverish  line  of  money-hunters." 

He  had  strolled  through  several  of  the  graveled 
walks,  the  low-hanging  branches  of  the  trees  im- 
pinging on  his  shoulders  and  dropping  their  dew, 
when  he  came  to  the  summer-house  in  the  center 
of  the  garden.  The  interior  looked  inviting,  and  he 
started  in,  only  to  draw  back  at  the  threshold.  For, 
seated  on  one  of  the  benches,  her  face  buried  in  a 
book,  was  the  girl  he  had  the  previous  day  met  in 
the  library. 

"Oh!"  she  cried,  her  face  flushing,  "I  thought  it 
was — was  Miss  Cynthia." 

"No,  she  has  gone  away  on  horseback,"  Hartley 
informed  her,  her  agitation  somehow  firing  his. 

"Oh!"  The  exclamation  was  faint  almost  to  in- 
audibility. The  book  wTas  closed  now  and  lay  in  the 
girl's  lap.  Hartley  read  the  title  on  the  cover  and 
recognized  it  as  the  novel  she  was  so  absorbed  in 
when  he  first  saw  her. 

"I  see  you  are  still  reading  that  book,"  he  said, 
in  a  tone  meant  as  an  attempt  to  put  her  at  ease. 
"You  haven't  finished -it  yet?" 

Her  great  dreamy  eyes  were  frankly  raised  to  his. 

46 


NOBODY'S 

In  the  free  morning  light  they  took  on  fresh  beauty, 
their  violet  depths  seeming  to  hold  more  that  was 
inexplicable.  Her  complexion  was  of  the  most 
delicate  pink — the  vanishing  inside  pink  of  a  sea- 
shell.  Her  lips  were  exquisite  and  firm  and  even 
haughty,  her  features  most  regular.  Her  abundant 
tresses  were  massed  in  artistic  freedom  on  the  top  of 
her  head  and  drawn  back  in  a  graceful  knot  behind. 

"I  have  read  it  three  times."  Her  voice  faltered, 
and  she  put  her  hand  on  her  throat  as  if  to  still  the 
visible  ripple  beneath  the  surface. 

" Three  times!"  he  echoed  in  surprise.  "And  yet 
I  remember  you  said  it  was  quite  sad  and  disagree- 
able." He  seated  himself  on  the  bench  directly 
opposite  her  and  regarded  her  tentatively.  She 
lowered  her  eyes,  and  he  saw  her  glance  furtively 
through  the  door  to  the  walk  leading  to  the  house. 
There  was  a  nervous  movement  of  her  small  feet, 
and  he  had  the  impression  that  she  was  contemplat- 
ing flight.  He  sympathized  with  her,  and  yet  had 
an  overpowering  desire  to  detain  her.  Seeing  that 
she  was  not  going  to  respond  to  his  remark,  but  sat 
holding  her  book  in  her  lap  as  if  about  to  rise,  he 
ventured : 

"My  sister  told  me  a  lot  of  nice  things  about  the 
way  you  and  she  pass  the  time  here.  You,  perhaps, 
can't  imagine  how  very  interesting  such  an  account 
is  to  a  lonely  bachelor  just  from  the  awful  roar  and 
jangle  of  New  York,  where  nobody  seems  to  have 
time  for  anything  in  the  way  of  reading,  reflecting,  or 

47 


NOBODY'S 

cultivating  the  mind.  Your  life  here  seems  much 
more  rational  and  wholesome." 

"I  would  have  had  nothing  if  your  sister  had  not 
bought  Fairview  and  come  here  to  live."  Celeste 
spoke  now  without  a  quaver.  It  was  as  if  her  very 
earnestness  had  conquered  her  timidity. 

"I  suppose  she  has  been  company,"  he  admit- 
ted, "with  her  books  and  artistic  and  musical 
tastes." 

"I  didn't  know  till  she  came  that  such  a  person 
lived  on  earth."  The  soft  voice  shook  slightly.  "I 
thought  such  sublime,  unselfish  characters  were  only 
to  be  found  in  story-books." 

' '  Yes,  she  is  grand, ' '  he  agreed.  ' '  Sis  will  do  what 
she  feels  to  be  right  in  spite  of  the  opposition  of  all 
the  world.  She  wants  to  befriend  you  because  she 
admires  you  greatly.  She  likes  you  and  thinks  you 
need  a  friend,  and  she  is  a  faithful  one." 

A  light  of  supreme  joy  blazed  in  the  wonderful 
young  face.  She  interlaced  her  slender  white  fingers 
and  leaned  forward;  some  of  the  golden  waves  above 
her  brow  fell  lower.  Her  breast  rose  and  sank  under 
stress  of  vast  excitement. 

"Does  she — does  she  really  like  me?"  she  panted. 
"I  have  never  heard  any  one  say  so.  She  looks  like 
she  does — sometimes — and  acts  a  little  like  it,  but  I 
was  afraid  it  might  only  be  due  to  my  hopes — my 
imagination.  I  have  prayed  night  after  night,  day 
after  day,  to  God  to — to  give  me  a  little  place  in  her 
heart,  but — "    A  welling  sob  broke  the  turbulent 

48 


NOBODY'S 

flow  of  speech,  and  she  raised  her  hands  to  her  face 
and  covered  it. 

Hartley  was  stirred  as  he  had  never  been  before. 
A  lump  had  risen  in  his  throat  and  pained  him  like  a 
sharp,  material  obstacle.  He  wanted  to  say  some- 
thing and  yet  could  think  of  nothing  that  would  be 
at  all  adequate  to  emotions  so  profoundly  delicate. 
Presently,  as  if  ashamed  of  her  weakness,  the  girl 
removed  her  hands  and  gave  him  a  full  and  eager 
stare. 

"The  trouble  is,"  she  began,  her  eyes  filling  with 
shadows,  her  brows  drawn  together  in  thought — "the 
trouble  is,  even  if  she  does  want  to  like  me  she  can't 
be  the  same  any  longer,  you  know.  Our  friendship 
has  to  end.  I  didn't  know  it.  Mammy  never  told 
me.  Your  sister  never  hinted  at  it.  There  was  no 
one  to  inform  me.  It  was  for  me  to  make  the  dis- 
covery.    I  found  it  out." 

"I  don't  understand."  But  the  words  had  hardly 
left  him  before,  with  a  shudder  through  his  whole 
body,  her  meaning  had  begun  to  dawn  on  him. 

"You  think — "  He  started  and  paused,  at  the 
end  of  his  resources. 

"Your  sister — Miss  Cynthia  was  too  good  to  let 
me  know  the  truth,  and  I  didn't  dream  that  I  was 
so  completely  cut  off  from  her  world  till  the  day  I 
sat  at  the  table  with  her.  You  see — you  see, 
mammy  has  always  brought  me  up  to — to  think  that 
I  was — was  not  the  same  as  the — the  darker-colored 
people.     I  don't  know  why  she  did  it,  but  she  has 

49 


NOBODY'S 

insisted  on  it  since  I  was  a  baby.  She  herself  never 
once  sat  at  the  table  with  me,  and  when  Miss  Cynthia 
was  good  to  me  mammy  showed  that  she  liked  it, 
but 'after  that  day" — Hartley  saw  a  shiver  shake 
the  slight  frame  from  head  to  foot — "after  the  day 
Polly  came  in  and  saw  me  at  your  sister's  table  and 
went  away  and  said  so  much  about  it,  then  I  began 
to  wonder.  I  questioned  mammy,  but  she  was  so 
furious  at  Polly  and  the  other  negroes  that  she 
would  not  talk  to  me.  Then  I  met  some  white 
mountain  men  in  the  road,  and  they — well,  they 
opened  my  eyes  to  my  condition.  But  not  fully, 
either.  I  was  still  wondering  when  I  ran  across  this 
book — this  novel.  It  is  all  clear  now — oh,  so  awfully 
clear!  This  is  so  pitiful  that  I  don't  see  how  a  man 
with  a  soul  could  have  written  it." 

"Oh!"  Hartley  reached  forward  and  took  the 
volume.     "What  is  it  about?" 

"  It  is  on  the  race  problem,"  the  girl  faltered.  ' '  It 
is  to  show  how  God  has  cursed  the  black  blood.  It 
is  a  straightforward  story  of  a  girl  placed  somewhat 
like  I  am  placed" — Celeste  was  regarding  him  with 
eyes  the  very  lashes  of  which  seemed  steeped  in 
grief — "but  in  unfolding  the  girl's  life  the  writer 
makes  her  curse  and  mine  plain.  She  was  born  in 
the  South  of  a  mother  who,  like  my  mother,  was 
almost  white.  When  the  child  was  only  about  two 
years  old  a  New  England  couple,  visiting  the  South, 
took  a  fancy  to  the  child  and  persuaded  the  mother, 
who  was  very  poor,  to  let  them  adopt  it.     She  con- 

50 


NOBODY'S 

sented,  and  the  child  was  taken  to  Boston  and 
brought  up  as  the  daughter  of  wealthy  parents. 
She  grew  to  be  very  beautiful.  She  was  talented 
and  stood  high  in  her  studies.  You  see,  no  one 
knew — no  one  suspected.  When  she  was  graduated 
she  fell  in  love  with  a  young  man  and  he  was  in  love 
with  her.  It  looked  like  they  were  to  be  happy. 
When  I  got  to  that  part  I  prayed  that  they  might 
be.  But  it  was  not  to  be  so.  The  lady  who  called 
herself  the  girl's  mother  died  $  her  husband  followed 
very  shortly,  and  the  girl  was  left  all  alone.  Then 
a  legal  question  arose.  There  was  a  dispute  over 
the  dead  woman's  estate.  No  will  had  been  made, 
and  a  claim  was  brought  forward  by  certain  relatives 
that  the  girl  was  not  the  woman's  child.  It  was  in 
all  the  newspapers,  and  the  awful  truth  came  out. 
The  girl  found  out  who  and  what  she  was.  She 
heard  that  her  real  mother  was  still  living  in  the 
South,  a  poor  working- woman,  and  the  girl  deter- 
mined to  go  to  her.  She  wrote  a  note  releasing  the 
man  she  loved  from  his  engagement,  and  went  South. 
She  found  her  mother  in  such  sordid  surroundings 
that  the  life  there — contrasted  to  what  she  had  left 
— almost  killed  her.  She  tried  to  do  her  duty,  but 
the  whites  despised  her  and  so  did  the  blacks.  Then 
her  lover  came  South  and  tried  to  persuade  her  to 
marry  him.  She  held  out  for  a  long  time,  but  finally 
gave  in.  Then,  as  they  were  about  to  be  married, 
he  discovered  that  there  was  a  State  law  against  such 
a  union.  Then,  to  gain  his  point,  he  asserted  that 
6  Si 


NOBODY'S 

he  had  a  trace  of  African  blood  in  his  veins,  and  a 
license  was  granted.  They  were  married  and  tried 
to  take  up  their  lives  in  the  South,  but — and  that 
was  what  the  author  of  the  book  started  out  to 
prove — happiness  was  utterly  impossible.  A — a 
thing  happened  which  proved  it  absolutely.  He 
shrank  from — his  own  child.  It  looked  like  its 
mother's  darkest  ancestors.  The  man  slipped  away 
to  the  woods  and  shot  himself,  and,  when  his  wife 
discovered  it,  she — took  poison,  leaving  the  baby  to 
her  mother.  Now,  you  see  how  my  own  eyes  have 
been  opened.  Now  I  know  why  those  white  men 
were  so  furious  over  my  sitting  at  the  table  with 
your  t sister — they  were  only  doing  their  duty  as 
they  saw  it,  and  I  can't  blame  them — I  can't  blame 
them  now." 

"I  am  sorry,  very  sorry  for  you,"  Hartley  heard 
himself  saying  in  a  tense  voice.  "  I  see  how  you  feel, 
and  I  wish  that  I  could  help  you." 

" Thank  you,"  Celeste  said,  simply.  "You  are 
very  kind.  Your  sister  hinted  once  that  I  should  be 
taken  to  the  North,  but  she  had  not  read  this  book, 
which  proves  that  the  North  is  no  place  for  me, 
either.  Doesn't  it  seem  cruel  of  God,  who  is  said  to 
be  so  good,  to  create  a  girl  like  I  am  and  hem  her  in 
between  two  antagonistic  races,  giving  her  nothing, 
allowing  her  nothing,  and  yet  filling  her  with  long- 
ings that  can't  be  crushed?" 

There  was  nothing  Hartley  could  say.  The  sight 
of  the  girl  as  she  sat  like  a  beautiful  drooping  flower 

52 


NOBODY'S 

was  pathetic  in  the  extreme.  The  sunlight  lay  on 
the  grass  outside.  Bees  and  humming-birds  were 
flitting  from  petal  to  petal.  A  mocking-bird  in  an 
oak  near  the  house  was  warbling  merrily.  Outside 
all  nature  seemed  in  harmony,  and  yet  here  sat  dis- 
cord personified.  The  cold  blood  of  sheer  im- 
potency  surged  through  the  young  man's  veins.  It 
was  humiliating  to  sit  helpless  in  the  presence  of 
such  refined  agony.  Presently  he  saw  that  she 
was  regarding  him  with  steady  eyes  in  which  faint 
flames  of  interest  seemed  to  burn. 

"You  are  like  your  sister,"  she  said,  "so  gentle 
and  kind  and  sympathetic.  There  is  a  little  some- 
thing I  would  like  to  ask  you.  I  want  to  know 
whether  it  is  worth  considering  as  a  scientific 
fact." 

"What  is  it,  Celeste?"  He  started  at  the  inad- 
vertent use  of  her  name,  and  then  had  an  impulse  to 
apologize,  which  he  at  once  saw  would,  in  the  nature 
of  things,  be  even  more  awkward.  "Of  what  are 
you  speaking?"  he  quickly  added. 

"Do  you  think" — she  was  nervously  turning  the 
leaves  of  the  book  with  the  tips  of  her  fingers — "do 
mental  scientists,  psychologists — persons  skilled  in 
such  things — actually  believe  in  thought-transfer- 
ence?" 

"Why,  yes,  I  think  so."  He  was  studying  her 
face  in  wonder.  "In  fact,  I  have  heard  many  per- 
sons say  they  have  had  almost  daily  experiences 
which  practically  prove  it.     I  know  that  Cynthia 

53 


NOBODY'S 

and  I  used  to  discover  that  we  were  thinking  of  the 
same  thing  at  the  same  time." 

"Yes,  she  told  me  so;  and  I  have  noticed  often 
that  she  would  speak  of  something  when  I  was  think- 
ing about  it ;  and  once  I  was  absolutely  certain  that 
she  was  coming  to  see  me.  I  was  so  sure  of  it  that  I 
stopped  sewing  and  went  to  the  window,  and  found 
that  she  was  actually  on  the  way." 

"There  are  many  phenomena  that  we  don't  yet 
understand,"  Hartley  went  on.  ''The  things  of 
every-day  life  absorb  us  so  completely  at  present 
that  we  don't  give  much  time  to  psychology,  but 
a  few  eminent  scholars  are  ^devoting  their  lives 
to  it." 

With  an  elbow  on  each  knee,  her  chin  in  her  hands 
like  a  picture  he  had  seen  of  a  young  girl  listening  to 
music,  Celeste  sat  with  her  great  hungry  eyes  fixed 
on  him. 

"Then — then  please  tell  me,"  she  urged,  "do  you 
think  if  one  were  constantly  with  some  one  who 
was — was  keeping  back  something  of — of  a  vital  nat- 
ure, that  one  would — would  be  impressed  by  it,  feel, 
you  understand  me? — feel  like  there  was  something 
being  withheld?" 

"I  am  afraid  I  don't  quite  catch  your  meaning," 
he  said. 

"I'll  have  to  be  plainer,"  she  threw  in,  quickly, 
"and  yet  I  don't  like  to  hint  such  a  thing,  but  there 
have  been  times  when  I  have  felt  that  mammy  has 
not  been  exactly  open  with  me.     I  am  impressed 

54 


NOBODY'S 

with  the  feeling  that  there  is  much  concerning  my 
life  which  she  has  not  told  me." 

4 'Strange,  very  strange,"  the  young  man  mused 
aloud,  and  then  he  sat  looking  at  the  girl,  incapable 
of  further  comment. 

"Of  course,"  she  ran  on,  "it  all  may  be  in  my 
imagination,  and  that's  a  tricky  thing,  don't  you 
think  so?" 

He  found  himself  unable  to  furnish  a  suitable 
reply.  "I  hardly  know  what  to  say,"  he  finally 
brought  out,  flushing  under  the  calm,  almost  de- 
tached stare  of  her  yearning  eyes. 

1 '  I  was  never  bothered  about  such  things  till  I  met 
your  sister,"  Celeste  pursued.  "Till  I  learned  to 
love  her,  and — and  discovered  what  a  great  gulf 
divided  us — till  I  discovered  that  I  was  a  despised 
creature,  fit  to  be  only  the  servant  of  others.  It 
was  a  sharp  awakening.  Those  men  who  almost 
spat  on  me  in  rage  are  the  kind  who  take  off  their 
hats  to  your  sister  and  bow  humbly."  A  little  laugh 
fell  from  her  trembling  lips,  but  it  was  a  sad  affair, 
and  the  lines  about  her  mouth  formed  a  grimace 
rather  than  a  smile.  "I  am  a  great  riddle  to  my- 
self. I'm  locked  in  a  queer  sort  of  prison,  and  I 
am  searching  for  the  key,  if  there  is  a  key.  Some- 
times I  think  there  isn't." 

There  was  an  actual  physical  ache  in  Hartley's 
breast.  His  blood  bounded  and  throbbed  in  his 
veins  in  the  rebellious  sense  of  his  utter  helpless- 
ness.    An   impalpable   substance   seemed   to   bear 

55 


NOBODY'S 

down  like  a  weight  on  his  brain.  A  blur  rose  be- 
tween him  and  her.  She  was  speaking  again,  but 
her  voice  sounded  as  if  from  a  distance,  for  it  had 
sunken  very  low  and  was  shaken  by  a  storm  of 
emotion  which  she  was  trying  to  check. 

"I  oughtn't  to  have  said  all  this,"  she  was  saying. 
"I  hardly  know  what  made  me  do  it,  but  Miss 
Cynthia  has  told  me  so  very  much  about  your  good- 
ness to  everybody  that  I  forgot  myself.  It  was  silly 
of  me,  but  the  idea  suddenly  came  (like  another 
cruel  trick  of  my  imagination)  that  you  might  be 
able  to  help  me,  for  really  I — I  am  troubled.  I  don't 
know  why  I  should  not  be  content  with  my  lot  as 
others  of  my  kind  are,  but  I  am  not.  My  very  soul 
cries  out  constantly.  I  am  neither  white  nor  black, 
you  see.  Through  my  prison  bars  I  see  the  sunlight 
and  fields  of  flowers  outside,  but  I  can't  go  to  them. 
For  days  at  a  time  I  try  to  subdue  myself.  I  try 
to  make  up  my  mind  like  the  girl  in  this  book  did, 
to  live  as  a  colored  person  among  colored  people,  but 
mammy  has  trained  me,  you  see,  to  believe  that  I 
am  not  like  them,  and  she'd  never  consent.  You  see, 
Marse  Hartley" — she  was  trying  to  jest — "young 
master,  I — " 

"Don't!"  He  sprang  up,  his  lips  quivering,  his 
face  pale.  "You  shall  not  say  that — you  shall  not 
speak  that  way." 

"I  was  only  joking,"  she  laughed,  still  harshly. 
"If  you  will  hear  the  plain  truth,  I  don't  really  feel 
as  humble  as  that.     I  can't.     I  ought  to  feel  that 

56 


NOBODY'S 

your  sister  honors  me  by  her  notice,  but  I  don't,  at 
least  in  the  way  those  mountain  men  look  at  such 
things,  for  I  know  that  I  am — am  what  I  am."  She 
struck  her  swelling  breast  with  her  hand.  ''There 
is  something  here  that  is  crying,  pleading  for  free- 
dom, for  recognition,  for  immunity  from  public  in- 
sult and  abuse  at  the  hands  of  strong  men,  for  the 
recognition  of  such  persons  as  your  sister  and — and — 
others.  Why  did  God  give  me  the  brain  I  have,  the 
taste,  the  longing,  the  keen  appreciation  of  beauti- 
ful things,  and  consign  me  for  life  to  what  is  worse 
than  outer  darkness?  Considering  my  accursed 
blood,  why  did  He  allow  me  to  be  brought  up  as  I 
have  been  brought  up?  After  all,  is  He  just,  I 
wonder?  Perhaps  our  idea  of  His  justice  is  only 
the  product  of  our  longing.  In  that  case  I  may 
not  be  the  only  sufferer,  if  the  whole  truth  is  ever 
known." 

At  this  juncture  there  was  the  sound  of  a  horse 
trotting  on  the  graveled  drive,  and  Celeste  rose  and 
peered  through  the  lattice. 

"It  is  Miss  Cynthia,"  she  said.  "I  must  go. 
Mammy  will  want  me." 

As  the  girl  passed  through  the  doorway,  Hartley 
had  an  impelling  desire  to  detain  her,  but  could 
think  of  no  excuse  for  so  doing.  It  seemed  to  him 
that  there  was  much  that  ought  to  be  said,  but  which 
lay  far  beyond  his  power  of  utterance.  He  stood 
where  she  had  left  him,  and  saw  her  hurry  along  the 
walk,  her  book  in  hand,  her  head  lowered,  the  most 

57 


NOBODY'S 

graceful  and  appealing  creature  his  eyes  had  ever 
beheld.     He  sank  back  on  the  bench  behind  him. 

"My  God,"  he  cried,  "it  is  awful — awful!  Now 
I  understand  what  Cynthia  means.  It  is  a  problem, 
and  it  is  as  deep  as  all  space.  This  poor  child  doesn't 
merit  such  treatment,  and  she  shall  have  relief — she 
shall  have  it,  if  it  is  in  the  power  of  man  to  obtain  it." 


CHAPTER  VI 

HIS  sister  had  put  a  fine  riding-horse  at  his  dis- 
posal, and  the  next  morning  Pomp  brought  the 
animal  around  and  Hartley  started  out  for  a  ride. 
He  took  the  road  leading  to  Lowndesville,  and  had 
just  passed  the  deserted  old  mansion  of  the  Lowndes 
family  when  he  saw  ahead  of  him,  giving  direc- 
tions to  some  workmen  who  were  repairing  a  barbed- 
wire  fence,  his  friend  Elwood. 

"Hello!"  the  lawyer  greeted  him.  "I  was  going 
over  to  Fairview  to  see  you  as  soon  as  I  got  through 
here." 

"When  did  you  come  out?"  Hartley  asked. 

"Last  night.  I  slept  in  the  old  house  so  as  to  be 
on  hand  to  attend  to  business  early  this  morning. 
Ugh!  it  seems  to  me  that  I  like  that  old  joint  less 
and  less  as  I  grow  older.  I  suppose  it  is  a  sign  of 
old  age,  but  I  found  myself  waking  up  in  the  night 
and  thinking  of  all  sorts  of  hobgoblins.  The  negroes 
believe  the  house  is  haunted,  and  when  I  sleep  there 
I  find  it  hard  to  keep  the  creepy  feelings  away.  I 
smoked  five  strong  cigars  last  night,  and  that  made 
me  so  nervous  I  couldn't  sleep.  Old  Aunt  Jennie 
and  Uncle  Jake  had  scoured  my  room  out  the  day 
before,  and  the  moisture  got  into  the  old  ceiling  and 

59 


NOBODY'S 

wainscoting,  and  in  drying  out  the  boards  set  up  a 
popping  that  was  anything  but  agreeable." 

Hartley  swung  himself  down  to  the  ground,  fast- 
ened his  horse  to  the  fence,  and  he  and  Elwood 
strolled  along  the  road. 

"  You  must  stay  and  go  fishing  with  me,"  Hartley 
suggested.  "If  you  don't  want  to  sleep  here  we 
have  plenty  of  room  over  our  way,  and  we  are 
hungry  for  your  society." 

"Thanks,  old  chap,"  the  lawyer  responded,  "but 
I'll  have  to  go  right  back.  The  General  is  getting 
mighty  cranky,  and  demanding  all  sorts  of  atten- 
tions to  his  matters.  I  get  out  of  patience  with  him 
sometimes,  and  when  I  do  I  simply  demand  more 
money  for  my  services.  He  always  gives  in,  for  he 
is  silly  enough  to  think  that  no  one  else  can  be 
trusted.  He  has  got  used  to  me,  and  he  hates  every 
other  lawyer,  so  I  guess  I've  got  a  berth  with  him 
as  long  as  he  holds  out,  or  till  he  loses  his  mind. 
I'm  really  looking  for  that  before  long,  for  no 
brain  can  stand  the  load  of  hate  he  keeps  on 
his." 

"He  must  be  an  odd  old  man,"  Hartley  said, 
tentatively,  his  eyes  on  the  stately  mansion,  the 
roof,  gables,  and  dormer-windows  of  which  showed 
above  the  tops  of  the  cedars  which  grew  on  the 
lawn.  "I  am  interested  in  him.  I  recall  now  that 
he  and  my  father  were  rather  intimate  years  ago. 
I  think  you  said  he  has  had  sad  experiences?" 

"The  most  tragic  I  think  I  ever  heard  of,"  Elwood 

60 


NOBODY'S 

answered.     "I'll  tell  you  the  whole  thing  if  you've 
got  time  to  listen." 

"I've  nothing  on  earth  to  do,"  Hartley  said,  deep- 
ly interested.  They  had  paused  quite  near  the  main 
gate,  and  could  look  along  the  weed  and  grass- 
grown  walk  into  the  old  portico,  the  roof  of  which 
was  supported  by  four  corrugated  columns  resting 
on  massive  cubes  of  masonry.  Above  the  doorway 
a  little  balcony  with  a  railing  of  rusty  iron  jutted 
out  from  the  white  weather-boarding. 

"Well,  suppose  we  go  in  the  house,"  the  lawyer 
proposed.  "I've  got  the  key.  It  is  a  curious  old 
place,  fast  going  to  ruin.  The  General  won't  let  me 
have  any  repairs  made,  and  refuses  to  have  a  thing 
disturbed.  The  furniture  is  exactly  as  it  was  the 
last  time  he  was  in  it — fully  nineteen  years  ago." 

"Nineteen  years!"  the  other  exclaimed,  in  sur- 
prise. 

"Yes,  nineteen  this  summer."  They  had  opened 
the  gate  and  were  now  threading  their  way  up  the 
sloping  walk,  stepping  over  gullies  and  hardy  young 
bushes.  On  either  side  of  the  walk  they  saw  the 
remains  of  terraces,  parterres,  broken  statues,  and 
summer-houses  so  weighted  down  with  climbing 
vines  that  the  rotting  lattice  was  giving  way,  the 
whole  appearing  like  mounds  of w green. 

"Look  out  for  the  steps!"  Elwood  cautioned  his 
companion  as  they  were  about  to  ascend  to  the 
floor  of  the  portico;  "the  planks  are  rotten,  and 
you  might  go  through." 

61 


NOBODY'S 

They  had  reached  the  door,  and  the  lawyer  was 
about  to  unlock  it  when  it  was  opened  from  within 
and  an  old  negress  stood  bowing  servilely. 

"It  is  Mam'  Jennie,"  Elwood  said,  as  he  greeted 
her  with  a  smile.  "She  and  Uncle  Jake  look  after 
the  place,  but  only  in  the  daytime.  Isn't  that  so, 
Jennie?"  he  continued,  playfully.  "You  bet  they 
stay  in  their  quarters  after  dark,  for  the  ha'nts  cer- 
tainly do  stroll  about  through  this  part  of  the  house, 
don't  they,  Jennie?" 

"Dey  do  dat,  young  marster — dey  certney  do!" 
The  old  woman  shrugged  her  bowed  shoulders  and 
shook  her  kinky  head.  "I  ain't  see  um,  but  I  hear 
um  all  thoo  de  night.  Dey  ain't  satisfied,  suh — 
en  why  would  dey  be  wid  all  um  daid  so  sudden 
widout  er  chance  ter  talk,  en  old  marster  still  ergin 
um?" 

"That's  so."  Elwood  winked  at  Hartley.  "Well, 
I'm  going  to  show  my  friend  the  place.  Mammy, 
this  is  Miss  Hartley's  brother.  You  know  her,  I'm 
sure?" 

"  Yas,  suh,  oh,  yas,  suh!  I  seed  'er;  she's  er  fine 
lady,  suh — one  er  de  old  kind,  'fo'  de  wa\  Mam' 
Ansie  done  tell  me  'bout  'er,  en  how  kin'  she  is  ter 
de  niggers  over  dar.  Marster,  is  dar  anything  you 
want  me  er  Jake  to  do  ter-day?" 

"No,  mammy,  nothing  at  all."  Elwood  led  his 
guest  into  the  great  entrance  -  hall,  and  the  old 
woman  shuffled  in  her  loose  shoes  back  to  the  rear. 
On  every  hand  were  old  pieces  of  furniture.     Oil 

62 


NOBODY'S 

paintings  in  chipped  and  cracked  gilt  frames  hung 
on  rusty  wires,  or,  resting  on  the  floor,  leaned  against 
the  wall.  Elwood  pointed  to  the  plastering  over- 
head which  hung  in  sagging  sheets  from  the  water- 
stained  lathes. 

"I'm  looking  for  that  to  crash  down  any  day,"  he 
said,  "so  don't  get  under  it.  The  roof  leaked  in 
several  places — the  water  was  absolutely  dripping 
on  the  piano  and  soaking  through  the  walls  into  the 
pictures.  I  had  the  holes  mended  and  made  no  re- 
port of  the  expenses.  The  General  would  have  been 
furious.  This  piece  of  property  is  his  sore  point. 
He  won't  have  it  sold,  he  won't  talk  of  it,  and  he  won't 
have  it  preserved — it  looks  like  he  wants  it  to  burn 
up  or  rot  to  the  ground.  I  tell  you,  the  Lord  never 
made  a  queerer  human  combination  than  he  is.  His 
troubles  have  run  him  almost  crazy.  Sometimes 
I'm  sorry  for  him,  sometimes  I  am  not." 

They  were  now  in  the  great  drawing-room.  It 
was  oblong  in  shape,  had  several  bow- windows  on 
the  side  and  some  on  the  front  which  opened  onto 
the  portico  on  the  level  with  the  floor.  Against  the 
wall  outside  a  tree  had  fallen,  and  its  branches  lay 
against  one  of  the  windows,  its  bare  brown  twigs 
forming  an  intricate  mass  through  which  the  light 
scarcely  passed.  The  furniture  was  rare  old  ma- 
hogany upholstered  in  hair-cloth.  At  either  end  of 
the  room  stood  tall  gilt-framed  pier  glasses,  which 
added  to  the  effect  of  space.  The  two  friends  sat 
down  on  a  divan  in  one  of  the  windows  beneath  a 

63 


NOBODY'S 

canopy  of  spider-webs  which  glistened  like  silk  in  the 
sun's  rays  that  entered  through  the  broken  slats  of 
the  closed  outer  blinds. 

"I'll  tell  you  the  whole  thing  from  first  to  last." 
Elwood  pulled  at  his  blond  mustache  as  if  to  assist 
his  memory.  "As  I've  told  you,  before  the  war  this 
old  place  was  the  finest  in  the  State.  The  General's 
grandfather,  the  son  of  an  English  gentleman,  had 
grants  to  thousands  of  acres  in  this  section,  includ- 
ing the  property  owned  by  your  sister  and  many 
other  tracts  adjoining.  But  it  is  chiefly  about  the 
General  I  have  to  speak.  He  was  a  prince  of  high- 
livers;  he  owned  nearly  a  thousand  negroes  and 
lived  here  like  a  lord.  Back  behind  the  house  are 
the  stables,  which  are  large  enough  to  house  a  hun- 
dred horses,  and  there  was  scarcely  a  day,  I  am  told, 
that  persons  of  note  were  not  entertained  here.  The 
General's  wife  was  a  beautiful  woman  from  a  long 
line  of  aristocratic  women  in  Virginia,  and  his  only 
daughter,  Dorothy,  had  inherited  this  beauty.  She 
was  the  belle  of  the  entire  section,  and,  next  to 
his  only  son,  Cary  Junior,  was  the  General's  chief 
pride.  Well,  you  shall  see  what  all  the  old  man's 
pride  came  to. 

"He  had  a  political  rival,  Major  Charles  Rawson, 
a  man  of  fine  family,  who  had  moved  here  from 
South  Carolina.  They  had  some  sort  of  dispute,  and 
widened  the  breach  by  running  against  each  other 
for  the  United  States  Senate.  It  was  the  hottest 
and  most  bitter  contest  in  the  history  of  the  State. 

64 


NOBODY'S 

The  newspapers  were  full  of  the  details.  Major 
Rawson  actually  had  the  report  circulated  that  the 
General  was  of  illegitimate  birth.  The  General  had 
no  trouble  nailing  the  thing  as  a  lie  out  of  whole 
cloth,  but  you  may  rely  on  it  that  the  thing  rankled 
deeply.  But  what  he  felt  then  must  have  been 
nothing  to  his  chagrin  when  the  returns  were  in  and 
he  found  himself  defeated  by  an  overwhelming  ma- 
jority. Men  alive  now  who  remember  it  say  that 
General  Lowndes  actually  frothed  at  the  mouth. 
He  hid  here  for  a  while  like  a  hermit  and  denied  him- 
self even  to  his  most  intimate  friends.  It  was  said 
that  he  was  only  kept  back  from  challenging  his 
rival,  who  came  of  a  family  of  duelists  and  would 
fight  at  the  drop  of  a  hat,  by  the  advice  of  warm 
friends  who  knew  that  a  challenge  at  such  a  time 
would  only  make  him  appear  ridiculous." 

"He  certainly  had  hard  lines,"  Hartley,  who  was 
deeply  interested,  declared,  as  he  took  the  cigar  his 
friend  was  offering  him. 

"Yes,  but  what  I  have  told  you  was  not  a  drop 
in  the  bucket  to  what  piled  up  on  him  shortly  after 
the  election.  His  daughter  and  son,  finding  this 
place  rather  uninviting  and  their  father  gloomy 
company,  spent  a  good  deal  of  time  away.  Young 
Cary  was  fond  of  fine  horses,  and  he  stayed  about 
Louisville  a  good  deal,  and  the  pretty  daughter 
visited  in  many  places,  Washington  among  others. 
It  was  there  that  the  worst  happened,  for  at  a  ball 
one  night  she  met;  for  the  first  time,  young  Martin 

65 


NOBODY'S 

Rawson,  the  senator's  eldest  son.  It  is  said  that 
they  started  out  by  quarreling  over  their  fathers' 
differences  and  ended  by  falling  in  love.  The  family 
dispute  had  been  so  conspicuous  that  they  resorted 
to  secret  meetings  in  Washington,  and  when  Dorothy 
returned  home  Rawson  followed  her,  taking  a  room 
at  the  Lowndesville  hotel  under  an  assumed  name 
and  stealing  out  here  and  meeting  her.  The  young 
lady  had  a  confidential  maid — by-the-way,  you 
may  have  seen  her;  she  lives  on  your  sister's  place — 
old  Mam'  Ansie — " 

"I  haven't  seen  her,"  Hartley  answered,  "but  I 
have  heard  a  good  deal  of  her,  and  I  have — " 

"Well,"  interrupted  Elwood,  "it  appears  that 
Ansie,  who  was  very  intelligent  and  almost  white, 
did  everything  she  could  to  aid  her  mistress.  She 
bore  messages  between  the  two  and  stood  guard  over 
.all  their  meetings.  To  come  to  the  end  of  my  story, 
nobody  knew  how  he  happened  to  get  onto  the 
matter,  but  young  Cary  came  home  unexpectedly. 
No  living  person  knows  exactly  what  took  place,  but 
it  is  counted  as  certain  that  he  either  found  Rawson 
calling  here  at  the  house  or  met  him  on  the  lawn  as 
he  was  leaving.  They  were  both  armed — all  young 
men  in  that  day  carried  revolvers.  It  is  thought 
that  young  Cary  was  too  angry  to  listen  to  explana- 
tions, and  that  he  opened  fire.  In  sheer  self-defense, 
so  many  think,  Rawson  pulled  his  gun  and  fired  back. 
The  negroes  here  at  the  time  say  at  least  five  shots 
were  heard.    At  any  rate,  both  men  fell.     At  the 

66 


NOBODY'S 

inquest  it  was  shown  that  Cary  had  received  only 
one  bullet,  while  three  were  found  in  the  body  of 
Rawson." 

"Awful,  awful!"  Hartley  exclaimed,  "and  the 
young  woman — what  did  she  do?" 

"She  was  almost  crazed  by  the  horror  and  grief 
of  it  all.  Her  father  was  in  Nashville  at  the  time 
and  was  summoned  home  by  telegraph.  Before  he 
reached  here  he  had  learned  the  main  particulars. 
They  say  he  looked  at  the  body  of  his  son,  which  was 
laid  out  here  in  this  parlor,  and,  driving  everybody 
from  the  room,  he  fell  down  over  it,  caressing  the 
dead  face  and  crying  and  uttering  curses.  He  took 
his  revolver  from  a  drawer  and  started  up  to  his 
daughter,  who  was  in  her  room,  but  was  forcibly  de- 
tained by  the  sheriff  and  his  men,  who  happened  to 
be  present.  It  is  said  that  he  never  met  or  spoke 
to  his  daughter  again.  She  remained  here  in  abso- 
lute seclusion,  receiving  no  one  and  attended  only 
by  this  same  Mam'  Ansie  and  Jake  and  Jennie. 
About  a  year  after  the  tragedy  she  died  of  a  broken 
heart.  That's  the  story  in  full.  You  see  now  why 
my  old  client  is  so  sour  and  embittered." 

"He  had  enough  to  make  him  so,"  Hartley 
breathed,  almost  in  relief.  ' '  Poor  old  chap !  I  shall 
sympathize  with  him  more  now.  Anything  is  ex- 
cusable in  a  man  who  has  had  all  that  to  bear." 

"There  was  one  other  thing,"  Elwood  added. 
"The  General  fairly  worshiped  his  son.  He  used 
to  say  that  young  Cary  had  the  highest  moral  sense, 
6  67 


NOBODY'S 

and  a  most  refined  and  elevated  character,  and  it 
pained  him  beyond  expression  when  the  report  got 
out  that  Cary  was  the  father  of  a  child  born  to 
Mam*  Ansie.  Perhaps  you  may  have  seen  the  girl 
over  there?" 

"Yes,  yes,"  Hartley  answered,  "I've  seen  her 
twice,  and  talked  with  her.  She  is  a  remarkably 
refined  and  beautiful  girl." 

"I  think  it  was  her  beauty  that  started  the  re- 
port," Elwood  observed.  "You  see,  many  think 
that  she  resembles  the  Lowndes  women,  who  had 
such  rare  beauty,  and  it  is  rather  natural  to  suppose 
that  Ansie  and  young  Cary  might  have  been  in- 
timate." 

"But  the  General  would  not,  you  say,  believe  it?" 
Hartley  threw  in,  tentatively. 

"Never,"  declared  Elwood.  "He  feels  that  his 
boy  gave  his  life  in  the  defense  of  the  family  honor, 
and  a  thought  as  coarse  as  that  could  find  no  place 
in  his  reflections.  It  is  hard  to  think  ill  of  the  dead, 
and  you  may  be  sure  he  can't.  But  he  hates  Mam' 
Ansie,  partly  on  account  of  this  intimation  against 
the  memory  of  his  son,  and  for  her  unfaithfulness 
to  him  in  aiding  his  daughter.  The  old  woman  is 
abnormally  afraid  of  the  General.  She  has  taken 
care  to  avoid  him  ever  since." 

There  was  a  loud  rapping  on  the  steps  of  the 
portico. 

"I  think  those  fellows  have  finished  their  work," 
Elwood  remarked.     "I'll  go  speak  to  them.     Don't 

68 


NOBODY'S 

hurry.  I'll  go  settle  with  them  and  then  we'll  ride 
over  to  Fairview.  Perhaps  you  may  as  well  look 
into  the  next  room,"  pointing  to  the  wide  folding 
doors,  "it  is  the  main  dining-hall,  where  the  Gen- 
eral used  to  entertain  so  lavishly.  I'll  be  with  you 
in  a  minute." 


CHAPTER  VII 

PASSING  through  the  parted  doors,  Hartley 
found  himself  in  a  great  chamber  still  com- 
pletely furnished  as  it  had  been  for  more  than  a 
century.  A  thick  coating  of  dust  lay  on  the  long, 
oval-shaped  mahogany  table  and  on  the  high-backed 
chairs,  china-closets,  and  sideboard.  There  was  a 
fine  oriel  window,  the  small  panes  of  which  were 
cracked  and  broken  and  coated  with  dust  and  over- 
hung with  cobwebs.  Against  the  glass  on  the  out- 
side honeysuckles,  ivy,  and  other  climbing  vines 
pressed  and  clung  to  the  decayed  mullions  in  a  mass 
so  thick  that  the  light  came  through  only  in  spots 
and  shafts.  The  walls,  once  white  and  as  smoothly 
kalsomined  as  porcelain,  had  turned  yellow  and 
were  cracked  and  chipped,  and  on  them  in  every 
available  space  hung  family  portraits  in  oil  heavily 
framed  in  gilt.  Drawing  one  of  the  old  lace  cur- 
tains aside,  Hartley  caused  more  light  to  penetrate 
the  shadowy  place,  and  was  studying  the  pictures 
when  Elwood  returned. 

"You  see  what  I  mean  about  the  resemblance  of 
Ansie's  daughter  to  the  women  of  the  family."  He 
touched  his  friend  on  the  elbow  and  directed  him 
to  a  portrait  above  the  great  open  fireplace  and 

70 


NOBODY'S 

white  marble  mantelpiece.  "That  is  the  General's 
wife.  Look  at  the  brow,  the  eyes,  the  slender  neck, 
the  lips,  the  nose.  If  you  have  had  a  good  look  at 
this  Celeste,  perhaps — " 

"The  resemblance  is  striking,"  Hartley  admitted. 
"Mrs.  Lowndes  must  have  been  quite  young  when 
she  sat  for  the  portrait." 

"  It  was  just  before  her  son  was  born,  according  to 
the  date  on  the  back.  I  examined  it  carefully  one 
day,  when  I  was  kept  in  here  by  a  storm.  But  if 
you  see  any  resemblance  there,  wait  till  you  see 
Dorothy." 

Elwood  led  him  to  a  picture  with  a  broken  frame 
that  was  leaning  against  the  wall  on  one  of  the 
carved  serving-tables.  "Wait  till  I  throw  the  light 
on  it.  It  used  to  hang  there  by  the  General's 
wife,  but  it  must  have  been  jerked  down  by  some 
one.  I  found  it  in  the  closet  under  a  lot  of  rubbish. 
I  have  an  idea  that — " 

"The  General  did  it?"  Hartley  broke  in,  impul- 
sively. 

"Exactly,"  Elwood  nodded,  as  he  turned  to  a 
window.  "I  can  account  for  it  no  other  way. 
The  wire  was  broken,  and  the  picture  had  been  rough- 
ly handled.  Yes,  I  can  see  the  poor  fellow  in  here 
on  that  awful  day  raging  about  like  a  demented 
creature.  Jennie  and  Jake  say  he  was  in  a  desperate 
plight.  Now,  can  you  see  better?"  Elwood  was 
drawing  a  curtain  aside. 

"Yes,  yes."     Hartley  stood  fairly  transfixed  by 

7i 


NOBODY'S 

astonishment,  for  the  likeness  of  the  face  on  the 
canvas  was  true  enough  to  have  been  Celeste  her- 
self. 

"I  see  you  agree  with  me,"  the  lawyer  said,  from 
the  window.  "They  are  as  much  alike  as  two 
peas,  aren't  they?" 

"It's  remarkable  —  remarkable!"  Hartley  was 
speaking  to  himself  as  much  as  to  his  friend.  "I 
wonder  if  Celeste  has  ever  seen  this?" 

"Oh  no."  Elwood  was  quite  positive  on  the 
point.  "Mam'  Ansie  has  never  crossed  the  thresh- 
old since  her  young  mistress  died,  and  I  judge  that 
Celeste  was  an  infant  at  the  time.  In  fact,  I  have 
heard  that  the  baby  was  in  Mam'  Ansie' s  arms  at 
the  time  her  mistress  was  buried.  I  sometimes  think 
I  should  have  liked  to  be  a  detective  by  profession." 
Elwood  laughed  as  he  dropped  the  curtain  and  came 
back  to  his  friend.  "There  certainly  would  be  much 
material  here  for  investigation.  I  am  constantly 
having  this  or  that  inexplicable  incident  come  up." 

"What,  for  instance?"  Hartley  was  trying  to 
speak  in  a  casual  tone  to  subdue  an  undercurrent  of 
interest  for  which  he  could  hardly  account. 

"Oh,  well,"  Elwood  smiled,  "there  is  one  thing 
in  particular  I'd  like  to  know,  for  knowing  the  fact 
about  that  might  explain  more.  I'll  put  it  in  a 
nutshell  by  saying  I  want  to  know  who  got  the 
money?" 

"The  money?"  Hartley  exclaimed,  in  an  attempt 
at  jesting.     "The  plot  is  thickening." 

72 


NOBODY'S 

"Yes,  the  money.  There  has  been  a  lot  of  hard 
feeling  between  the  two  factions  on  that  issue.  The 
General  claims  that  at  the  time  of  the  double  killing 
his  daughter  had  in  her  possession  ten  or  fifteen 
thousand  dollars,  which  had  come  to  her  through 
the  death  of  her  mother  only  a  few  months  before. 
The  General,  I  gathered  in  one  way  and  another, 
for  he  won't  talk  even  to  me  about  it,  knew  his 
daughter  had  the  money,  but  did  not  know  where 
it  was  kept  or  what  she  did  with  it,  unless  she  gave 
it  to  her  lover,  who  it  seems  was  in  some  financial 
straits.  You  see,  the  General  charges  this  on  his 
enemy's  son,  while  up  to  his  death,  five  years  ago, 
Senator  Rawson  firmly  believed  that  the  money 
went  to  Mam'  Ansie." 

"Mam'  Ansie?"  Hartley  exclaimed,  in  surprise. 

"Yes,  as  soon  as  Senator  Rawson  heard  of  the 
child  and  its  resemblance  to  the  Lowndes  family,  he 
made  no  bones  of  saying  that  the  whole  thing  was 
as  plain  as  the  nose  on  a  man's  face.  He  said  that 
being  in  such  close  touch  with  her  maid,  Dorothy 
Lowndes  discovered  the  outcome  of  her  brother's 
intimacy  with  Ansie,  and  that  Dorothy  simply  set 
the  money  aside  for  the  upbringing  of  her  brother's 
child,  and  kept  it  from  her  father." 

"Ah,  I  see,  and  what  do  you  think?"  Hartley 
asked,  eagerly. 

"Well,  I  haven't  fully  made  up  my  mind  yet," 
was  the  half -evasive  reply,  "but  it  is  a  solution 
which,  if  I  were  a  detective  and  employed  on  the 

73 


NOBODY'S 

case,  I  think  I  could  dig  out  without  very  great 
difficulty." 

"You  think  you  could?"  Hartley  remarked,  re- 
flectively. 

"Yes,  for  I'd  simply  make  it  my  business  to  in- 
quire into  Mam'  Ansie's  manner  of  living.  If  she 
has  been  spending  more  money  on  her  daughter 
than  she  has  earned,  then  I'd  conclude  that  she  had 
secret  means  of  support.  I  have  an  idea  that  she 
has  surrounded  Celeste  with  all  sorts  of  comforts 
and  advantages." 

"I  am  sure  she  has,"  Hartley  said. 

Elwood  nodded  conclusively  as  they  turned  back 
into  the  more  cheerful  drawing-room.  "If  she  has 
been  spending  money  you  may  count  on  the  fact 
that  Senator  Rawson  had  it  down  about  right.  The 
General  would  see  it;  but  he  can't  entertain  such  a 
thought  about  his  dead  son,  and,  besides,  I  doubt 
that  he  has  seen  Celeste  for  years,  and  I  am  sure  no 
one  could  talk  to  him  about  the  matter.  I  stand 
closer  to  him  than  any  one  else,  and  I  wouldn't 
mention  it  for  worlds.  There  is  another  thing,  too, 
that  points  the  same  way,  and  that  is  the  odd  fact 
that  Mam'  Ansie  considers  her  child  too  good  to  asso- 
ciate with  colored  persons.  You  see,  the  acknowl- 
edgment on  the  part  of  Dorothy  Lowndes  of  her 
brother's  responsibility  in  the  child's  birth  may 
have  given  Ansie  an  abnormal  pride  in  the  girl's 
blood  connections.  She  may  even  be  silly  enough 
to  think  she  could  overcome  race  prejudice.     There 

74 


NOBODY'S 

is  no  telling  what  idea  may  have  lodged  in  the  wom- 
an's head.  She  always  was  a  haughty  creature,  and 
spoiled  by  the  idea  that  she  was  so  intimate  with 
the  Lowndes  family.  But  her  efforts  are  frightfully 
misdirected.  In  doing  so  much  for  Celeste  she  is 
taking  away  every  chance  of  the  girl's  happi- 
ness." 

" Celeste  is  wonderful — a  marvel,"  Hartley  de- 
clared. "She  is  unlike  any  one  I  ever  saw.  She 
has  impressed  my  sister  with  her  personality,  and 
I  have  only  met  her  twice,  and  yet  I  have  already 
seen  that  her  condition  and  her — her  growing  horror 
of  it  have  taken  complete  possession  of  her.  It  is 
pitiful,  Elwood,  to  think  of  a  frail  young  thing  like 
she  is  struggling  with  a  problem  as  profound  as 
that.  If  she  showed  the  slightest  trace  of  her 
mother's  dark  blood,  I'm  sure  I  should  not  feel  as  I 
do,  but,  as  I  talk  to  her,  and  look  at  her,  I  simply 
can't  feel — realize,  you  know,  that  she  is  different 
from  my  own  race  at  all." 

"I  see,"  the  lawyer  laughed,  softly.  "I  am  glad 
to  hear  you  say  it,  for  when  I  met  her  in  the  road 
out  there  not  long  ago,  I  felt  the  same  way.  Some- 
how I  felt,  as  I  stood  talking  to  her,  that  I  was  in  the 
presence  of  one  of  the  originals  of  those  pictures  in 
there.  By  George,  I — I  haven't  told  it  before,  but 
I  took  off  my  hat  to  her  that  day.  She  seemed  to 
look  straight  through  me  with  those  wonderful  eyes, 
in  a  way  that  made  me  put  a  guard  on  my  tongue 
and  think  what  I  was  about.     I  remember,  as  I 

75 


NOBODY'S 

walked  on,  that  the  thought  came  to  me  that  if  I 
had  been  seen  lifting  my  hat  to  her  by  the  average 
white  man,  it  would  have  been  told  all  over  the 
country  as  a  social  outrage.  But  I  didn't  care.  I'd 
do  it  again.  There  is  a  vague  something  about  her 
that  I  want  to  pay  homage  to;  besides,  your  sister 
may  be  right  in  her  theory  that  there  may  be  a 
vanishing-point  of  certain  race  characteristics  when 
the  stronger  blood  conquers  the  weaker.  This  girl 
may  in  some  ways,  at  least,  be  even  an  improvement 
on  her  best  white  ancestors.  She  may  have  lost 
every  trace  of  black  blood — she  may,  and  yet  she  is 
doomed.     It  is  sad  to  say  it,  but  she  is  doomed." 

"Doomed?"  Hartley  echoed. 

"Yes,  Nature's  laws  will  not  be  tampered  with. 
No  white  man  could  marry  that  girl  and  ever  hope 
to  be  happy.  The  reversion  to  the  original  race 
type  is  said  to  be  inevitable.  It  has  happened  in  a 
pronounced  form  after  the  passage  of  centuries.  It 
looks  like  God  Himself  has  laid  down  the  boundary- 
lines." 

"She  feels  that  herself,"  Hartley  sighed.  "She 
has  read  a  book  on  the  subject,  and  is  deeply  con- 
cerned over  the  discovery.  She  seems  to  have  been 
blissfully  ignorant  of  her  condition  till  quite  recent- 
ly, and  is  only  just  now  coming  into  a  full  realiza- 
tion of  it." 

"Poor  child!"  Elwood  said,  looking  out  at  one  of 
the  front  windows  across  the  portico.  "I  asked 
Jake  to  saddle  my  horse,  and  I  see  it  down  there 

76 


NOBODY'S 

with  yours.  Let's  get  out  and  breathe  some  fresh 
air.  This  old,  musty  place,  with  its  gloomy  asso- 
ciations, is  getting  on  my  nerves." 

That  night,  after  Elwood  had  left  for  town,  Hart- 
ley strolled  about  the  lawn  alone.  The  stars  were 
out,  shedding  their  soft  light  over  the  quiet  fields 
and  meadows.  Fireflies  were  flitting  across  the 
grass.  Tree-frogs  were  snarling.  There  was  music 
in  the  negro  quarter — the  sound  of  dancing,  clapping 
of  hands,  merry  laughter,  snatches  of  plantation 
melodies,  loud  guffaws,  and  all  but  musical  snorts 
of  derisive  delight. 

The  heart  of  the  young  man  had  never  been  so 
heavy.  Try  as  he  would  to  do  so,  he  could  not 
drive  the  thought  of  Celeste  and  her  distress  from 
his  mind.  She  must  be  helped;  but  how?  What 
man  alive  could  aid  her  ?  Who  aside  from  God  Him- 
self could  extend  a  hand  ?  It  was  cruel,  cruel,  but 
what  could  be  done  ?  Surely,  he  argued,  the  hunger 
for  knowledge  was  a  good  thing,  and  yet  Celeste's 
hunger  for  it  had  wrought  her  ruin.  As  far  as  she 
was  concerned,  no  science  could  solve  her  problem. 
No  door,  white  or  black,  was  open  to  her. 

In  stentorian  tones  Pomp  was  singing  to  the 
twanging  accompaniment  of  a  guitar: 

"  Ba,  ba,  black  sheep,  has  yer  got  any  lamb? 
Yes,   'way  down  in  de  valley; 
De  buzzards  en  de  flies  is  er-pickin'  out  'is  eyes, 
An'  de  po'  lill  thing  cries,  'Mammy!'" 

77 


NOBODY'S 

"That's  it!"  Hartley  sighed;  "that  expresses  it. 
The  world  is  against  her.  She  is  beginning  to  know 
it.  She  is  in  despair.  She  is  too  frail  to  stand  up 
under  it.  The  time  will  come  when  she  will — my 
God,  she  will  end  it!  I  see  the  advancing  shadow 
of  it  in  her  pleading  eyes." 

Hartley  threw  his  cigar  away  and  locked  his  hands 
behind  him.  The  book  which  had  so  greatly  in- 
fluenced Celeste's  despair  was  in  his  room,  and  he 
intended  to  go  up  and  read  it.  But  how  could  he  ? 
It  shed  no  ray  of  hope  for  Celeste  or — him.  No,  he 
would  not  open  it.  The  writer  of  it  thought  it 
voiced  an  important  message  to  the  world.  To  one 
gentle,  helpless  soul,  at  least,  it  pronounced  the  sen- 
tence of  death.  How  the  poor  child's  sweet  voice 
echoed  in  his  ears!  How  the  vast  depths  of  her 
eyes  called  out  to  him — to  him!  Yes,  he  was  sure 
she  had  looked  to  him  for  help,  as  a  suffering  child 
might  to  an  older  and  wiser  person,  and  yet  he  was 
bound  hand  and  foot  and  could  only  stand  by  and 
watch  her  physical  and  mental  writhing. 

He  groaned  aloud.  He  was  out  of  sorts  with  him- 
self, with  fate,  with  everything.  The  very  stars 
seemed  to  mock  him  with  their  peaceful  rays.  The 
universe  was  out  of  joint;  its  damnable  machinery 
fairly  creaked  from  its  lack  of  the  oil  of  human  kind- 
ness. He  saw  his  sister's  shadow  as  it  flitted  past 
the  lighted  windows  of  the  drawing-room. 

"Dear  old  Sis!"  he  cried.  "She  is  the  right  sort, 
She  didn't  stop  to  think  of  race  prejudices  and  social 

78 


NOBODY'S 

hair  -  splitting.  Her  great  woman's  heart  was 
touched,  and  she  gave  it  play — that's  all." 

He  went  to  the  veranda.  Miss  Hartley  was  wait- 
ing for  him  on  the  step.  He  put  his  arm  about  her 
waist  and  kissed  her  on  the  cheek. 

"What  is  the  matter,  Gordon,  dear?"  she  asked, 
eying  him  attentively. 

"Nothing,"  he  returned.  "I  only  wanted  to  kiss 
you,  that's  all.  You  are  a  brick,  Sis — the  dearest, 
noblest  woman  alive." 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE  morning  was  bright  and  balmy.  With  reel 
and  rod  and  other  tackle  Hartley  fared  forth 
after  breakfast,  bent  on  reaching  some  shaded  nook 
on  the  banks  of  the  near-by  river  where  Pomp  had 
assured  him  there  was  an  abundance  of  trout. 

His  way  took  him  through  the  negro  quarter,  past 
the  cabins  of  the  black  farm-hands  on  his  sister's 
land.  Before  the  open  doors  the  children,  clothed 
only  in  dingy  shirts,  which  hid  the  upper  parts  of 
their  bodies  and  exposed  their  brown  legs,  were  play- 
ing, shouting,  singing,  dancing.  The  women  who 
were  not  at  work  in  the  fields  sat  in  the  doorways 
sewing,  or,  as  was  often  the  case,  either  combing 
their  own  kinky  heads  or  those  of  their  children. 
Hartley  noted  the  pretentious  cottage  in  which  Mam* 
Ansie  lived.  It  had  a  neat  fence  around  it.  There 
was  a  fierce  watch-dog  on  the  step,  which  raised  its 
head  at  his  approach,  gave  a  warning  growl,  opened 
its  red  mouth,  and  rushed  toward  the  fence. 

Mam'  Ansie,  a  portly,  white  -  skinned,  straight- 
haired  woman  of  middle  age,  happened  to  be  among 
the  flower-beds  in  the  little  yard,  and  she  turned  and 
ran  quickly  to  the  dog. 

"Down  dar,  Zeke,  you  scamp !"  she  cried,  indig- 

80 


NOBODY'S 

nantly,  "git  back  'hind  dat  house  er  I'll  bre'k  yo* 
fool  neck!" 

"Let  him  alone,  he's  all  right,"  Hartley  said,  as 
she  turned  to  him,  her  face  full  of  apology  and  regret. 
"He  looks  like  a  good  dog,  and  that  is  what  you 
want." 

"I  des  has  ter  hav'  'im,  young  marster,"  the 
woman  answered,  her  glance  wavering  as  it  rested 
on  his  face.  Oh,  Lawd,  suh,  you  don't  know  how 
much  trouble  I  done  hat  wid  dese  yer  white  moun- 
tain men  'fo'  yo'  sister  le'  me  live  close  to  her  big 
house.  Dey  all  hates  me  kase  I  won't  bow  en  scrape 
ter  um,  and  kase  I  minds  my  own  business.  But 
dey  stay  away  now,  suh,  kase  dey  know  she  is 
we-all's  friend.  Dey  used  ter  come  en  set  down  in 
my  house,  young  marster,  en  ax  me  what  fur  I 
bringin'  up  my  chile  lak  I  is,  en  why  I  ain't  mek  'er 
wuk  in  de  fiel'  same  ez  dey  do  wid  deir  gals.  Dey 
say  I'm  uppity  en  wa'nt  on  de  level  wid  whites,  en 
say  dey  gwine  come  in  de  night  en  tek  me  out  en  lash 
my  bare  back.  Dat  what  I  got  Zeke  fer.  But  ain't 
dey  already  try  ter  p'ison  'im?  Yes,  suh,  young 
marster,  dey  th'owed  er  piece  er  meat  wid  ground 
glass  in  it  over  de  fence,  en  Zeke  ud  er  got  it  ef  I 
hadn't  heer  um  en  go  out  en  look  on  de  groun'." 

"You  seem  to  get  very  little  protection  from  the 
law,"  Hartley  said.  He  was  gravely  studying  her 
unintelligent  features  for  some  vestige  of  resemblance 
to  the  fair  girl  who  had  so  greatly  captured  his  in- 
terest and  sympathy.     But  his  search  was  in  vain. 

81 


NOBODY'S 

There  was  absolutely  not  a  thing  in  common  between 
the  two. 

' ' Law  ?  I  say  law  ?' '  The  woman  sniffed.  ' '  Ain't 
de  officers  of  de  self -same  stripe?  Ain't  de  bailiff 
hisself  cuss  me  ter  my  face  one  time  when  I 
stopped  'im  in  de  road  on  his  hoss  en  tol'  'im  dat 
er  gang  er  white  boys  put  up  ter  it  by  grown  folks 
was  th'owin'  rocks  on  my  roof.  What  you  reckon 
he  say?  He  'low  dat  my  rail,  sho-nough  trouble 
ain't  begun — dat  white  folks  ain't  gwine  ter  put  up 
wid  er  woman  doin'  lak  I  am  wid  Celeste.  He  say 
es  long  es  I  dress  'er  up  lak  I  does,  en  learn  'er  so 
much,  dat  it  gwine  make  po'  white  folks  mad.  He 
say  dese  white  men  fit  en  bled  en  lost  deir  kin  in  de 
war  ter  keep  my  sort  in  bondage,  en  dat  dey  ain't 
gwine  ter  sit  quiet  en  let  me  raise  my  child  up  wid 
mo'  'vantages  dan  dey  kin  git  for  dey  gals.  Dat  what 
he  say,  suh,  en  he  was  as  white  as  er  sheet  he  so  mad. 
He's  er  drinkin'  man,  en  his  own  gals  wuk  in  de  co'n- 
field  kase  he's  so  shif'less.  But  dey  all  don't  know 
me,  sur.  I  ain't  tryin'  ter  stick  my  own  se'f  up.  I 
know  my  place.  I  always  has  knowed  whar  I 
b'long,  but  it  is  diffunt  wid  dis  child.  I  done  give 
my  promise  ter  er  daid  person — ' '  She  paused  as  if  her 
impulse  had  led  her  further  than  she  intended  to  go. 

'To  her  father?  You  promised  her  father?" 
Hartley  ventured,  a  probing  stare  on  her  face.  He 
saw  her  thick  lashes  quiver  and  fancied  she  avoided 
his  eyes,  and  he  was  sure  she  seemed  to  deliberate  as 
she  twisted  her  thick  fingers  in  her  apron. 

82 


NOBODY'S 

"It  don't  mek  no  odds  who  I  promised,  but  I  done 
promised  en  crossed  my  heart  en  kissed  de  Bible," 
she  answered,  evasively,  "en  you  know,  marster, 
when  you  done  dat  in  good  faith  en  de  pusson  is  daid 
en  cayn't  tek  no  hand,  en  de  sperit  is  all  de  time 
hangin'  'bout  ter  see  what  yo'  gwine  ter  do,  why — " 

"Oh,  Mam'  Ansie" — he  tried  to  speak  lightly — 
"surely  you  don't  believe  all  that  rubbish." 

"Hush,  hush!  young  marster" — a  look  of  super- 
stitious fear  crept  into  the  round  face,  and  the 
woman's  lips  quivered — "I  know  what  I'm  talkin' 
'bout,  kase  I  done  heer  um,  en  see  um,  en  feel  um. 
Shucks !  Maybe  you  white  folks  don't  b'lieve  in  um, 
but  black  folks  do,  kase  dey  know  de  trufe." 

"I  can't  believe  it  at  all."  Hartley  was  chilled  by 
the  thought  that  such  a  creature  of  superstition 
should  guard  the  life  secret — if  there  was  one — of  the 
helpless  girl  whose  condition  had  interested  him  so 
profoundly. 

"Huh,  huh!" — the  woman  leaned  on  the  palings 
of  the  fence  and  raised  a  frank  stare  to  his  face — 
"young  marster,  I've  hat  um  come  ter  my  baid  en 
set  down  by  me,  en  shake  me,  en  wake  me  up,  en 
hold  dat  same  Bible  open  in  dey  lap,  en  hear  um 
say:  'Mammy,  keep  yo'  wud.  I  ain't  gwine  let  yo' 
soul  res'  ef  you  bre'k  yo'  promise.'" 

Hartley  was  all  but  speechless  under  the  per- 
plexity of  what  seemed  to  him  such  a  grave  situ- 
ation. 

"But,  Mam'  Ansie,"  he  gently  protested,  "per- 

7  83 


NOBODY'S 

haps  you  are  holding  back  something  that  you  ought 
to  reveal  for  the  good  of  your  daughter." 

"Fer  her  goodV  the  woman  blurted  out.  "I 
say!  I  wouldn't  want  dat  chile  ter  be  nowhar  on 
dis  earth  ef — ef  I  broke  dat  promise.  Sperits  kin 
see  what  gwine  ter  happen  better'n  we-all  kin,  en 
dat's  why  dey  hang  round  me  so  much.  Dey  'fraid 
I  gwine  ter  give  in — dey  think  dese  po'  white  trash 
gwine  ter  keep  on  naggin'  me  till  I  git  weak-kneed 
en  tell  um  all  my  own  business,  but  I  ain't.  'I  ain't 
no  fool.  I  know.  One  night — 'twus  de  day  Celeste 
hat  dat  talk  wid  you  in  young  miss's  flower-garden — 
I  know,  kase  I  seed  you  bofe  settin'  in  dat  summer- 
house.  Dat  night  atter  I  done  in  my  baid,  en  I 
thought  Celeste  was  soun'  asleep,  she  come  en  slip 
in  my  room  en  come  ter  my  baid  en  set  down.  Huh ! 
she  don't  do  'at  often.  I  reckon  she  must  er  been 
crying;  fer  she  kivered  up  'er  eyes,  an'  'er  voice 
sound  low  en  shaky,  en  she  say  she  want  ter  know 
ever*  single  thing  'bout  'erse'f.  My  Gawd!  she 
ain't  never  talk  lak  dat  befo' !  She  des  set  dar  in 
de  dark  wid  'er  lill  han's  in  'er  lap  en  bent  over  me 
en — en  beg  en  beg.  De  Lawd  know  dat  was  my 
trial  an'  tribulation.  I  tol'  'er,  young  marster,  dat  I 
des  hat  ter  keep  my  sacred  vow  ter  de  daid,  but,  des 
lak  you,  she  say  she  ain't  er-f eared  er  sperits,  en 
willin'  ter  risk  it.  I  prayed  wid  'er  en  I  beseeched 
'er,  but  she  des  set  dar  en  beg  en  beg  lak  she  'bout 
ter  cry.  Den,  young  marster,  des  when  I  was  so 
sorry  fer  de  po'  lill  thing,  my  heart  was  bleedin'  en 

84 


NOBODY'S 

gittin'  too  weak  ter  stand  it,  I  hat  er  warning.  I 
heered  three  loud  taps  on  my  window-casement  es 
plain  es  I  ever  heer  er  soun'  in  my  life,  en  des  den 
er  sperit  on  de  urr  side  de  baid  ketch  hoi'  er  my 
kiver  en  jerked  it  so  it  slid  mos'  off  me.  I  got 
scared  den,  en  made  Celeste  go  back  ter  'er  room. 
Den  de  sperit  went  off  en  lef  me  erlone." 

''Horrible,  horrible!"  the  listener  said  to  himself, 
as  the  hot  blood  of  anger  beat  in  his  veins.  "The 
poor  child  may  never  know  the  full  truth  about  her- 
self, for  it  is  locked  up  here  in  the  lowest  of  super- 
stitious fear."  Then  to  the  woman  he  said:  "See 
here,  Mam'  Ansie,  you  must  be  sensible.  You  must 
listen  to  the  advice  of  well-wishers.  Perhaps  your 
dau — perhaps  Celeste" — he  caught  himself  amend- 
ing, for  no  reason  that  he  could  see — "really  ought 
to  know  more  about  her  parentage.  My  friend, 
George  Elwood — " 

"El wood?  Lawd,  Lawd,  young  marster,  do  you 
know  dat  man?" 

"Yes,  he  is  an  old  friend  of  mine,  a  college-mate. 
He  has  charge  of  General  Lowndes's  affairs,  and  comes 
out  this  way  to — " 

"Oh,  marster,  stay  'way  fum  dat  man — fer  all 
you  do,  stay  'way  fum  'im!  Tell  me,  please,  suh, 
is  he  been  ax  you  'bout  me?  What  he  want  ter 
know  ?  Is  old  marster  sent  'im  ter  meddle  wid  me  en 
Celeste?     I  is  been  lookin'  fer  dis  move.     I  sho  is." 

Wondering  over  her  sudden  agitation,  Hartley 
endeavored  to  allay  it.     In  the  gentlest  of  tones  he 

85 


NOBODY'S 

declared  that  he  had  many  reasons  for  believing 
that  Elwood  was  no  deeper  in  the  old  man's  con- 
fidence than  was  necessary  to  the  transaction  of 
purely  business  matters.  But  the  cloud  brooding 
over  the  woman  failed  to  lift.  Her  brows  were 
drawn  together  suspiciously,  and  the  angles  and 
lines  of  her  face  stood  out  sharply.  Her  great  breast 
rose  as  she  took  in  a  deep,  trembling  breath,  and  she 
shook  her  head  vigorously. 

"He  kin  fool  you,  suh,  but  he  cayn't  fool  me.  I 
know  old  marster,  en  my  po'  young  mistress  knowed 
'im.  Ain't  he  done  try  ter  kill  'er  already?  Ain't 
he  go  clean  off  en  lef  de  po'  thing  wid  des  me  ter 
tend  on  'er,  en  lay  out  'er  beautiful  body,  en  go  wid 
it  ter  de  grave,  kase  he  hate  'er  lak  er  snake,  kase  she 
love  er  nice  young  man  en  couldn't  he'p  lovin'  'im? 
He  was  er  devil  dem  days,  en,  fum  all  I  heer  um  say, 
he's  er  wuss  one  now.  I  know,  kase  de  sperits  warn 
me  to  keep  out  er  his  track.  Dey  say — dey  say 
ef  he  know  'bout  me  en  dis  chile,  he  gwine  come  heer 
en  strangle  us  bofe.  He  would,  too,  kase  his  heart 
ain't  never  soften.  I  seed  'im  las'  mont'  when  I 
hatter  go  to  Lowndesville  ter  lay  in  some  things  fer 
Celeste.  He  was  all  bent  down  fum  de  load  er  hate 
en  hell  on  his  back,  en  I  seed  him  wid  his  withered- 
up  face  en  shaky  hands.  My  Gawd !  my  Gawd !  tek 
'im  away — tek  'im  out  er  my  sight!" 

Seeing  that  nothing  could  be  gained  by  argument 
or  persuasion  while  the  present  mood  was  on  the 
creature,  Hartley  wisely  dropped  the  subject. 

86 


NOBODY'S 

"I  am  going  down  to  the  creek  to  fish,"  he  re- 
marked. "Can  you  tell  me  the  best  spot  to  try 
for  trout?" 

"Yes,  suh,  young  marster."  The  countenance 
cleared,  and  a  lighter  tone  crept  into  the  voice. 
"I  know,  kase  I  done  seed  um  jumpin'  out'n  de  water 
ter-day.  It  right  whar  de  river  bend  close  ter  de 
ioad." 

Hearing  steps  within  her  house,  she  turned  and 
looked  toward  it.  Celeste,  a  small  basket  on  her 
arm,  a  pretty,  white  sunbonnet  on  her  head,  and 
wearing  a  neat  skirt  and  white  shirt-waist  of  a  be- 
coming pattern,  emerged.  Hartley  saw  her  shrink 
back  in  surprise  on  seeing  him  and  hesitate  for  an 
instant,  only  in  the  end  to  pursue  her  way  toward 
the  gate  near  which  he  stood. 

"Celeste  will  show  you  whar  it  is,"  Mam'  Ansie 
added,  a  look  of  pride  on  her  face.  "She  goin'  right 
close  ter  it  ter  git  some  peaches  in  de  orchard  fer 
yo'  sister.  Lessie,  honey,  show  young  marster  dat 
fish-hole  in  de  canebrake  whar  de  trout  so  thick." 

As  if  gratified  by  the  chance  to  do  him  a  service, 
a  pleased  glow  suffused  the  fair  face  of  the  girl ;  her 
blue  eyes  twinkled,  and  she  smiled  as  she  opened 
the  gate  and  came  out  into  the  road. 

"They  may  not  be  biting  to-day,"  she  said,  in 
the  mellow  voice  which  to  his  ears  was  so  much  like 
music.  "Your  uncle  sometimes  fails  to  catch  any. 
Miss  Cynthia  says  he  and  your  aunt  are  coming 
home  soon." 

87 


NOBODY'S 

"Yes,  in  a  few  days,"  he  made  answer.  They 
had  turned  toward  the  river,  and  strolled  along  side 
by  side,  he  carrying  his  rod  and  tackle,  she  swing- 
ing her  basket  in  her  hand.  Happening  to  glance 
back,  he  saw  Mam'  Ansie  leaning  on  the  fence  re- 
garding them  intently.  There  was  no  mistaking  the 
fact  that  she  was  gratified  by  his  attention  to  her 
daughter.  No  social  ambition  was  at  the  bottom 
of  it.  It  was  simply  a  survival  of  the  slave  instinct 
to  obtain  in  any  way  the  approval  of  her  superiors. 

Again  the  spell  of  the  girl's  presence  held  Hartley 
in  its  subtle  grasp.  Her  great  beauty  flashed  upon 
him  with  redoubled  force;  she  was  so  graceful,  so 
light,  so  dainty;  the  upward  glance,  half  timid,  half 
confident,  as  if  her  faith  in  him  had  grown,  thrilled 
him  through  and  through.  He  found  himself  de- 
liberating on  what  would  be  appropriate  to  say,  for 
the  remarks  she  had  made  during  their  talk  in  the 
flower-garden  thronged  back  on  him  as  things  of 
wisdom  and  insight  incongruous,  and  yet  peculiarly 
fitted  to  her  appealing  and  mysterious  personality. 

"I  heard  you  playing  your  violin  last  night,"  he 
finally  said. 

"Oh,  did  you?"  she  exclaimed.     "I'm  sorry." 

"Sorry?"  he  repeated,  watching  the  pink  wave 
rise  in  her  cheeks  and  vanish  in  the  shadowy  depths 
of  her  eyes. 

"Yes ;  I  never  play  for  any  one,  and  I  did  not  know 
the  sound  would  carry  so  far.  I  was  trying  to  play 
softly." 

88 


NOBODY'S 

"I  was  walking  in  the  meadow  back  of  your  cot- 
tage," he  said.  "I  had  retired  to  my  room.  But 
the  night  was  too  warm  to  sleep,  and  so  I  went  out 
again.  The  stars  were  shining,  and  the  grass  was 
wet  with  dew.  I've  heard  music  in  New  York  sung 
and  played  by  great  masters,  but  was  never  moved 
by  it  as  I  was  by  yours.  I  can't  explain  the  effect 
it  had  on  me.  It  was  so  sad,  so  original  and  quaint, 
so  beautiful,  so  weird,  so  perfect — it  made  my  heart 
ache.  Somehow  I  felt  that  you  yourself  were 
sad." 

"I  think  I  was — in  fact,  I  am  usually  so  when  I 
play.  It  seems  to  give  me  relief."  The  lips  of  her 
rosy  mouth  were  trembling  as  from  deep  feeling. 
"I  am  ashamed  of  my  playing — it  must  be  very 
crude.  I  don't  play  written  compositions.  I  im- 
provise as  I  go  along,  and  I  never  know  what  is 
coming." 

"That  accounts  for  its  rare  beauty  and  individu- 
ality." He  felt  suddenly  abashed,  as  if  he  had 
uttered  a  bland  and  empty  platitude  to  a  musical 
authority,  as  her  eyes  rose  to  his  so  penetrat- 
ingly. 

"It  seems  to  me  that  my  violin  can  never  be  in- 
duced to — to  sing  quite  softly  enough,"  she  said, 
as  if  searching  for  a  word  to  fit  her  meaning.  "There 
is  a  certain  point  it  will  reach  in  gentleness  of  ex- 
pression, but  when  I  try  to  make  it  go  lower  it 
squeaks  and  loses  its  tone.  I  was  reading  a  beauti- 
ful thing  the  other  day — "     She  suddenly  checked 

89 


NOBODY'S 

herself  as  if  conscious  of  speaking  too  freely  to  him. 
Her  color  deepened,  and  she  avoided  his  questioning 
stare.     He  waited,  but  she  failed  to  resume. 

"You  were  speaking  of  having  read — "  he  re- 
minded her,  and  he  saw  her  shrug  her  pretty  shoul- 
ders and  tighten  her  proud  lips. 

"It  was  in  a  book  on  scientific  subjects,"  she  said. 
"It  stated  that  all  light  gave  out  sound  in  waves 
too  delicate  for  human  ears  to  catch,  and,  for  all  we 
know,  the  ears  of  insects  may  be  fashioned  sensi- 
tively enough  to  appreciate  the  various  tones.  It 
was  a  very  poetic  idea.  The  light  of  the  sun,  moon, 
and  stars  make  a  great  chorus,  and  the  color  of  each 
flower  is  singing  its  own  particular  song." 

"It  is  a  new  discovery,  I  presume."  Hartley 
heard  himself  advancing  under  a  sense  of  the  inade- 
quacy of  the  observation. 

"I  thought  surely  it  was  quite  new,"  the  girl  pur- 
sued, with  the  eagerness  of  an  earnest  student  in 
search  of  knowledge,  "till  I  ran  across  what  seemed 
to  be  a  reference  to  it  in  Shakespeare." 

"Is  it  possible?"  Hartley  cried.  "It  seems  that 
he  knew  everything." 

"Or  got  it  by  intuition,"  Celeste  threw  in.  "I 
shall  always  remember  the  lines.  I  always  thought 
them  most  beautiful,  but  they  hold  a  deeper  signifi- 
cance now." 

"Can  you  quote  them  ?"  he  gently  urged,  strangely 
conscious  that  he  was  asking  a  favor  at  the  hands  of 
her  rare  and  sensitive  reserve. 

90 


NOBODY'S 

"I  think  so,"  she  said,  dropping  a  thoughtful 
glance  to  the  ground.     "They  run  this  way: 

"  '  O,  it  came  o'er  my  ear  like  the  sweet  sound 
That  breathes  above  a  bed  of  violets, 
Stealing  and  giving  odor.' " 

"Beautiful!  beautiful!"  he  exclaimed.  "What 
wonderful  taste  for  selection  you  have!" 

She  made  no  response  to  this.  There  was  the 
sound  of  a  horse's  hoofs  behind  them,  and  they  saw 
approaching  a  gray-whiskered  man  in  a  buggy 
drawn  by  a  single  horse. 

" It  is  Doctor  Lee,"  Celeste  explained.  ' ' He  came 
to  see  mammy  when  she  was  sick  last  week." 

As  he  drew  near  them  the  doctor  reined  his  horse 
in  to  speak  to  the  girl.  "How's  your  mother?"  he 
asked,  casually,  a  kindly  look  in  the  gray  eyes 
which  he  bent  on  the  girl. 

Hartley  had  a  shock  to  his  sensibilities  in  the  fact 
that  the  man  had  not  touched  his  hat  when  he  spoke. 
His  quick  reason  told  him  that  he  had  no  ground 
for  resentment,  and  yet  the  resentment  lurked 
within  him.  It  lurked  and  burned.  His  pulse  was 
beating  rebelliously  as  he  heard  Celeste  answering 
in  quite  a  matter-of-fact  tone: 

"She  is  entirely  recovered,  thank  you,  doctor." 

"Well,  I  thought  the  medicine  was  all  she  needed, 
and  I  had  so  many  calls  to  make  that  I  didn't  come 
back.  I  don't  take  all  the  credit,  though,  for  I  am 
satisfied  it  was  your  good  nursing."     The  doctor 

9i 


NOBODY'S 

shook  the  reins  on  the  back  of  his  horse  and  chirped 
to  him.  "If  you  want  to  make  a  good  living, 
Celeste,  you  might  make  that  a  business.  Young 
women  of  your  race  are  doing  well  at  it  in  the  big 
cities." 

11  Your  race!"  The  words  grated  harshly  on 
Hartley's  ears.  The  doctor  had  bowed  to  him  and 
saluted  by  a  courteous  wave  of  the  hand,  as  one 
stranger  in  the  South  might  acknowledge  the  pres- 
ence of  another,  and  was  driving  on.  Hartley  suited 
his  step  to  that  of  his  young  companion.  Indigna- 
tion, which  he  knew  to  be  wholly  groundless,  was 
raging  like  a  storm  within  him.  He  had  a  sudden 
primitive  desire  to  clutch  the  fat  neck  of  the  man 
and  jerk  him  over  the  buggy  seat  to  the  ground, 
and  drag  him  back  to  the  girl  and  force  him  to 
apologize — to  apologize  ?  How  absurd !  and  yet  he 
had  the  feeling  that  it  was  due  her. 

"What  is  the  matter?"  Celeste  had  pushed  back 
her  sunbonnet  till  the  golden  masses  of  her  hair 
appeared  over  her  pink  brow  like  infinitesimal  strands 
of  burnished  bronze.  There  was  a  searching  ex- 
pression in  the  violet  eyes,  a  half-startled  look  of 
wonderment,  a  faint  quivering  of  the  sensitive  lips. 

"Nothing,"  he  answered,  and  then  he  knew  that 
his  reply  had  not  satisfied  her.  He  saw  the  shadow 
of  a  sad  smile  flit  across  her  face. 

"I  think  I  understand,  and  it  is  very,  very  good 
of  you,"  she  said,  tremulously.  "Your  sister  was 
like  that  once,  when  one  of  the — the — negroes  spoke 

92 


NOBODY'S 

of  me  as — as  belonging — but  never  mind.  I  don't 
like  to  discuss  it — somehow  I  can't.  But,  oh,  I 
must  say  this:  I  would  not  be  content  to  think  I 
had  not  shown  appreciation,  when  if — if  I  lived  a 
thousand  years  I'd — I'd  want  to  crawl  to  your  feet 
every  day  to  thank  you.  If  God  will  only  give  me 
some  way  to  reward  you,  I  shall  ask  no  more  of  life. 
It  is  so  sweet  to  be — be  defended,  and  yet  there  is 
nothing  to  resent.  He  meant  nothing  by  it.  He 
is  really  a  good  man.  He  would  have  taken  up  for 
me  if  he  had  happened  along  the  day  those  moun- 
tain men  were  abusing  me.  I  wish  I  could  stop 
struggling  against  my  fate  and  just  drift.  I  might 
if  I  had  never  met  your  sister  and — and  you." 

1 '  We  have — made  it  harder  ?"  he  faltered.  ' '  Real- 
ly, is  that  true?" 

She  hung  her  head  so  low  that  her  bonnet  hid  her 
eyes. 

"Yes,  but  through  no  fault  of  your  own,"  she  said, 
presently,  in  a  voice  that  lay  deep  in  her  throat. 
"In  fact,  only  through  your  own  gentleness  and 
goodness.  It  is  not  so  much  in  what  you  and  Miss 
Cynthia  say,  as  the  way  you  act  and  evidently 
feel" 

He  made  an  effort  at  response,  but  his  words 
clung  to  his  mouth,  his  tongue  seemed  thick  and 
clumsy.  "You  see,"  he  began,  awkwardly,  "we 
understand  your  feeling,  your  longings,  your  de- 
sires. It  is  irritating  to  stand  by  helpless  and  see — 
see  such  refined  suffering  as  yours." 

93 


NOBODY'S 

He  saw  her  lowered  head  nod  comprehendingly, 
but  no  words  came  from  her.  They  had  reached 
the  point  where  the  road  touched  the  bend  of  the 
little  river. 

"Here  is  the  best  place  to  fish,"  she  said.  "We 
both  have  to  get  over  this  fence  somehow.  That  is 
the  trout  pool,  and  the  orchard  where  I  am  going 
is  farther  on." 

The  fence  was  one  of  the  zigzag  affairs  made  of 
split  rails.  He  threw  his  rod  and  tackle  over  and 
sprang  after  them. 

"I'll  lower  the  rails,"  he  proposed,  and  he  began 
to  toss  them  right  and  left  with  the  ease  of  a  tennis- 
player  handling  a  racket. 

"No,  no,"  she  protested,  "it  will  be  hard  to  re- 
place. I  have  climbed  it  dozens  of  times."  She 
had  thrown  her  basket  over,  and  in  a  moment  was 
poised  on  the  top  rail  as  agile  in  movement  as  a 
squirrel.  She  was  looking  at  the  ground  for  a  suit- 
able place  to  alight,  but  he  stopped  her. 

"No,  no!"  he  cried.  "You  mustn't  jump.  You 
might  sprain  your  ankle.  Come,  let  me  help  you." 
He  held  out  his  arms  to  her  as  if  she  had  been  a  mere 
child.     "Don't  be  afraid,  I'll  catch  you." 

She  hesitated  charmingly,  glancing  to  the  right 
and  then  to  the  left,  her  cheeks  flaming.  To  accept 
his  assistance  she  would  be  obliged  to  rest  her  hands 
on  his  shoulders.  He  had  never  seen  her  so  beauti- 
ful. Her  bonnet,  the  strings  of  which  were  tied,  had 
fallen  backward,  and  her  abundant  hair  lay  in  a 

94 


NOBODY'S 

mass  on  her  shoulders,  seeming  to  get  its  golden 
blaze  from  the  fire  of  her  face. 
'  "Come!"  he  urged. 

Once  more  she  looked  to  the  right  and  left,  then, 
as  if  governed  by  his  magnetism,  the  tender  insist- 
ence of  his  manly  voice,  she  put  her  hands  on  his 
shoulders.  His  own  were  on  the  upper  parts  of  her 
arms,  and  he  lifted  her  as  lightly  as  a  feather  to  the 
ground.  With  a  laugh  as  merry  as  that  of  a  school- 
boy he  picked  up  her  basket  and  gave  it  to  her. 

"You  mustn't  be  afraid  next  time,"  he  said. 

"I  wasn't  afraid,"  she  said,  again  avoiding  his 
eyes.  "It  wasn't  that.  There  is  your  path.  It  will 
lead  you  to  the  water.  The  canebrake  is  very 
thick.  I  hope  you  will  have  great  luck.  I  go  up 
this  way."  She  inclined  her  head  toward  the  or- 
chard on  the  slope  beyond  a  field  of  cotton. 

"I'd  better  go  along  and  help  you  get  the  peaches 
down,"  he  said,  thoughtfully.     "The  fish  can  wait." 

"No,  the  trees  are  not  tall,"  she  said,  firmly,  "and 
I  can  easily  shake  them  down." 


CHAPTER  IX 

HE  plowed  his  way  through  the  dense  cane- 
brake,  following  a  path  scarcely  a  foot  in  width, 
the  thorn-bushes  and  wild  vines  clutching  at  his 
clothing  and  tackle.  Presently  he  came  to  the  river- 
bank.  The  unrippled  surface  of  the  water  gleamed 
like  a  mirror  in  the  sunlight — a  mirror  framed  by 
succulent  plants,  water  -  lilies,  bulrushes,  mosses, 
ferns,  and  gracefully  drooping  willows.  He  ar- 
ranged his  artificial  fly,  and  began  to  whip  the 
stream.  He  kept  it  up  without  success  for  several 
minutes,  and  then  his  rod  remained  poised,  for 
straight  across  the  curve  of  the  stream  he  saw 
Celeste  in  the  orchard.  She  was  under  a  young 
peach-tree  gathering  the  fruit  and  putting  it  into 
her  basket. 

Sport!  He  laughed  as  he  drew  in  his  line  and 
tossed  the  rod  on  the  ground.  What  sport  could  be 
equal  to  the  mere  sight  of  that  girl  ?  What  a  marvel 
of  flesh  and  soul  combined!  How  queer  that  such 
a  creature  so  oddly  circumstanced  should  have 
crossed  his  path  in  life !  What  a  pathetic  creature — 
the  most  pitiable  ever  cursed  by  existence!  There 
she  stood  helpless  and  alone,  and  no  man  could 
help  her — no  man  could  give  her  what  she  longed 

96 


NOBODY'S 

for.  She  was  a  white  lamb  in  a  fold  of  black  sheep. 
She  was  a  creature  of  mystery  becoming  conscious 
of  her  mystic  condition. 

Hartley  took  out  his  pipe  and  filled  it.  Behind 
him  was  a  pile  of  driftwood  and  dry  weeds  and 
grasses.  He  sank  upon  it,  thrilled  by  the  thought 
that  the  hill  Celeste  was  on  still  kept  her  in  his 
view.  Presently,  as  he  smoked,  he  saw  that  she  was 
coming  back.  He  watched  her  hungrily  till,  in  her 
descent  of  the  slope,  she  was  out  of  sight ;  then  with 
a  sigh  and  a  sensation  in  his  breast  which  amounted 
to  all  but  physical  pain,  he  threw  himself  on  his 
back,  his  eyes  on  the  snowy  clouds  drifting  across 
the  blue  sky.  As  he  took  his  pipe  from  his  lips 
and  dropped  his  right  elbow  down,  he  felt  it 
touch  something  soft  and  yielding.  Then  he  felt 
the  thing  move  and  squirm.  There  was  a  snarling 
sound  like  that  of  a  locust,  and  glancing  aside  he 
saw  the  head  of  a  huge  rattlesnake  poised.  The 
next  instant  the  reptile  had  struck  the  tip  of  his 
elbow.  It  must  have  touched  a  sensitive  nerve,  or 
the  "crazy-bone,"  and  with  great  force,  for  intense 
pain  shot  through  his  whole  body.  He  sprang  up, 
saw  the  snake  crawling  away,  and  jumped  on  it  and 
angrily  crushed  its  head  into  the  sandy  soil  with  his 
boot-heel.  The  rope-like  body,  in  dying  throes, 
coiled  tightly  round  his  leg  and  fiercely  contracted, 
but  he  reached  for  a  stick  and  punched  and  pounded 
the  snake  till  the  coil  on  his  leg  relaxed,  and  then 
he  stepped  back,  hardly  realizing  that  his  danger 

97 


NOBODY'S 

Lad  just  begun.  He  rolled  up  his  shirt-sleeve  and 
looked  at  his  elbow.  There  was  a  stream  of  blood 
issuing.  It  was  plain  to  him  now  that  something 
must  be  done,  and  that  quickly.  He  hastened  out 
to  the  open  field,  looking  almost  despairingly  in  all 
directions  for  some  one  who  could  give  him  assist- 
ance. He  had  read  enough  about  the  bite  of  that 
particular  reptile  to  know  that  there  was  little 
chance  of  escaping  with  his  life.  In  a  few  minutes 
the  poison  would  be  coursing  through  all  his  veins. 

He  was  climbing  the  fence  when  he  saw  Celeste 
coming  down  the  road  toward  him.  Hardly  know- 
ing why  he  did  so,  he  went  toward  her,  holding  his 
elbow  in  his  hand.  The  thought  was  in  his  mind 
that  it  was  due  to  his  family  to  know  the  cause  of 
his  death,  and  that  Celeste  would  bear  the  news  to 
them.  As  she  drew  near  him  their  eyes  met,  and 
she  saw  at  once  that  something  of  a  grave  nature 
had  happened. 

"What  is  the  matter?"  she  asked,  dropping  her 
basket  and  hurrying  forward. 

"Don't  be  frightened,"  he  said,  calmly.  "It  is 
only  a  little  thing.  I've  had  rather  hard  luck,  and 
I  thought  I'd  hurry  home.  I've  been  bitten  by  a 
rattlesnake." 

She  stifled  a  sharp  little  cry,  and  her  eyes  grew 
large  in  their  pale  setting.  Seeing  the  blood  on  his 
shirt-sleeve,  she  caught  his  elbow  and  looked  at  the 
wound. 

"Oh!"  she  cried.     "It  is  bad;    it  has  cut  deep 

98 


NOBODY'S 

into  the  flesh !  Something  must  be  done !  A  farmer 
was  killed  last  summer — by — quick!  Wait!  Hold 
your  arm  still!" 

He  saw  a  look  of  determination  settle  on  her  face. 
She  snatched  her  bonnet  from  her  head,  and  as  she 
tore  the  strong  strings  from  it  and  tied  them  to- 
gether she  commanded: 

"Roll  your  sleeve  up  as  high  as  you  can!  I  must 
wrap  it  tight!" 

He  obeyed  her.  Grave  as  the  situation  was,  he 
found  himself  admiring  her  presence  of  mind  and 
deft,  quick  action. 

"You  are  the  doctor,"  he  laughed.  "If  you  can 
save  my  carcass  you  will  do  more  than  all  the  medical 
fraternity,  for  they  say  a  thing  like  this  has  to  be 
treated  in  a  minute  or  the  whole  thing  is  off." 

"Don't  joke!"  she  cried,  imperatively.  "It  is 
awfully  serious.  Now,  hold  your  arm  down  so  I 
can  get  to  it,  and  keep  it  relaxed — don't  draw  the 
muscles.     I  must  bind  it  as  tight  as  I  possibly  can." 

Her  ringers  moved  so  rapidly  as  she  wound  the 
strings  above  his  elbow  that  he  hardly  saw  them 
still  an  instant.  She  almost  swung  herself  beneath 
his  outstretched  arm  in  tightening  the  bands.  Over 
and  over  the  arm  she  wound  the  strings,  uttering 
piteous  little  wails  of  dismay  and  sharp,  insistent 
commands.  Presently  the  strings  were  tied,  and 
then  she  cried: 

"Now  you  must  suck  it  out!  Suck  it  with  all 
your  might.  Mammy  says  it  is  the  only  thing — 
»  99 


NOBODY'S 

that  and  whisky!     Quick,  suck  it  all  out!     I'll  tell 
you  when  to  stop." 

He  tried  to  do  her  bidding,  but  found  it  a  physical 
impossibility  to  reach  the  wound  with  his  lips. 

"Can't  be  done,"  he  smiled.  "It  is  like  looking 
at  the  back  of  your  neck  without  a  mirror.  Let's 
walk  on.  I'm  very  much  obliged.  You  are  very 
kind.     If  you  hadn't  come  along — " 

"Oh,  it  must  be  done — at  once — at  once!"  Celeste 
panted.  "You  will  be  dead  in  a  few  minutes  if  it 
isn't.     Here,  let  me!" 

"Oh  no,"  he  protested  vigorously,  "you  mustn't 
think  of  it." 

"But  I  shall!"  She  caught  his  arm  and  applied 
her  lips  to  the  wound  and  began  to  suck  it.  He 
made  no  further  protest.  The  delicious  grasp  of  her 
warm,  velvet  mouth  went  through  him  from  head 
to  foot.  He  felt  her  drawing  the  blood  from  his 
veins,  pausing  now  and  then  to  wipe  her  lips  on  her 
handkerchief,  her  hair  loose  and  falling  over  his  bare 
arm.  After  a  moment  she  ceased  and  stood  gasping 
for  breath. 

"Now,  we  must  get  some  whisky,"  she  said,  look- 
ing down  the  road  to  a  mountaineer's  cabin  in  an  old 
field  about  a  fourth  of  a  mile  away.  ' '  If  Mrs.  Daniels 
is  at  home  she  will  have  some.  Her  son  Jeff  is  a 
moonshiner,  and  always  keeps  it.  She  will  give  me 
some.  Stay  here,  don't  move!  You  must  not  walk 
about  in  the  sun.  I  can  run  there  and  back  in  a  few 
minutes." 

ioo 


NOBODY'S 

He  proposed  to  accornpanyher,  but  jshe.  insisted 
on  his  sitting  down'orr- the.  grass,  saying  that  she 
could  go  faster  without  him.  Full  of  a  sense  of 
gratitude,  he  almost  enjoyed  being  so  helpless  in  her 
hands,  and  stood  and  watched  her  dart  away  through 
the  beating  sunshine  along  the  dusty  road. 

As  Celeste  neared  the  cabin  in  question  a  mild 
objection  to  what  she  was  about  to  do  took  possession 
of  her,  for  she  knew  Mrs.  Daniels  to  be  one  of  the 
women  of  the  neighborhood  who  were  especially 
antagonistic  to  her.  Then  she  remembered,  too,  that 
her  young  son  Jeff  had  addressed  her  familiarly  on 
several  occasions  when  she  had  accidentally  met  him, 
but  she  stifled  these  qualms  as  she  hastened  on  to 
the  cabin  door.  No  one  was  in  sight,  and  she  was  in 
hopes  of  finding  only  the  old  woman  at  home.  She 
told  herself,  by  way  of  calming  her  fears,  that  the 
emergency  was  so  great  that  the  woman  would  not 
delay  in  giving  aid.  She  had  reached  the  little  gate 
and  opened  it  and  gone  into  the  bare  yard,  orna- 
mented only  by  an  uncleanly  and  malodorous 
chicken -coop,  a  scant  woodpile,  an  ash-hopper,  a 
broken  cider-press,  and  a  beehive,  and  approached 
the  open  door  of  the  log  structure.  A  gray  house- 
cat  lay  asleep  on  the  slab  of  wood  which  formed  the 
door- step,  and,  looking  within,  she  saw  Jeff  Daniels 
bending  over  the  open  fire  as  if  cooking  something  on 
the  coals.  There  was  an  odor  of  frying  bacon  and 
boiling  coffee.  The  fellow  was  of  the  desperado  type 
of  mountaineer,  under  thirty,  tall,  raw-boned,  and 

IOI 


NOBODY'S 

with  a  dyed  mustache,  loose  jean  trousers  stuffed 
into  the  tops  of  high  boot-legs.  Hearing  Celeste's 
step,  he  came  to  the  door  and  looked  out. 

A  bold  look  of  admiration  swept  over  his  tanned 
face,  and  he  fairly  chuckled  as  he  smiled  down  on 
her  as  she  stood  bareheaded  and  visibly  alarmed 
before  him. 

"Oh,  hello!  purty  thing!"  he  said,  his  amorous 
eyes  sweeping  her  from  head  to  foot.  "Come  to 
give  me  a  call,  eh?" 

"Mr.  Gordon  Hartley  is  snake-bitten  down  the 
road,"  she  blurted  out.  "I  want  some  whisky. 
He's  bad  off.  Quick,  please,  Mr.  Daniels,  if  you  have 
any!" 

"You  bet  I've  got  a  plenty" — he  still  eyed  her 
steadily — "and  the  best  that  ever  was  made;  I 
always  keep  it.  But  what  are  you  in  such  a  devil 
of  a  hurry  for?  You  can't  kill  a  dude  like  him  all 
in  a  minute — pizen  simply  won't  soak  into  his  sort. 
Pizen  don't  feed  on  milk-and-water  chaps  from  up  in 
New  Yoric."  He  tittered  over  his  would-be  humor- 
ous pronunciation.  "I  met  the  skunk  t'other  day, 
and  he  didn't  so  much  as  look  at  me,  but  strutted  by 
smoking  the  same  as  if  I  was  so  much  trash  under 
his  feet.  But  you  bet  he  takes  notice  o'  yore  sort — 
him  and  his  old-maid  sister.  They  say  the  whole 
family  is  stuck  on  you,  eat  out  o'  the  same  spoon, 
and — and" — he  nodded  significantly — "I  reckon 
you  know  what  else.  You  an'  yore  mammy  ain't 
livin'  on  the  fat  o'  the  land  fer  nothing.     Old  Ansie 

102 


NOBODY'S 

knows  the  price  a  gal  like  you  is  worth  in  market  if 
slavery  is  over.  Say,  looky  here,  I  ain't  as  bad  as  I 
look.  I  want  to  tell  you  something.  I've  had  my 
eyes  on  you  for  a  long  time.  You  may  not  know  it, 
gal,  but  you  are  the  purtiest  thing  that  ever  wore 
shoe-leather,  and — " 

' '  Oh,  please  give  me  the  whisky — please /' '  Celeste, 
white  and  quivering,  pleaded.  "He  is  dying  down 
there  in  the  road.     Please,  please!" 

"I  will  just  for  one  little  thing."  The  man  came 
out  into  the  yard,  a  designing  look  on  his  flushed 
face.  "I'll  give  you  a  pint  bottle  full  to  the  neck 
for  just  one  little  hug.  I'm  going  to  have  it,  any- 
way, you  know,  and  you'd  as  well  be  nice  about  it." 

Celeste  retreated  toward  the  gate,  but  he  was  too 
quick  for  her.  He  sprang  forward  and  caught  her 
slender  wrist  in  his  hands  and  was  ruthlessly  draw- 
ing her  into  his  arms  when  his  mother,  a  gaunt, 
withered  old  woman,  turned  the  corner  of  the  cabin, 
and,  in  a   torrent  of  rage,  bore  down  on  him. 

"You  dirty  fool!"  she  hissed,  and  she  gave  him  a 
resounding  cuff  on  the  ear.  "Let  that  yaller  wench 
alone.  It  has  come  to  a  purty  pass  when  white  men 
beg  such  hussies  to  notice  'em,  and  in  broad  daylight, 
before  the  eyes  o'  decent  women!" 

Her  son  stood  back,  crestfallen,  but  he  was  far 
from  subdued.  "Damn  you;  mind  your  own  busi- 
ness!" he  growled,  his  eyes  flashing  sullenly. 

"I  will  mind  my  business  if  I  ever  see  you  up  to 
such  dirty  work  as  that  again  right  at  my  house. 

103 


NOBODY'S 

You  give  her  that  whisky!  Do  you  want  that  man's 
death  laid  at  yore  door  ?" 

He  made  no  movement,  and  the  old  woman 
shuffled  into  the  cabin  and  quickly  returned  with  a 
flask  of  whisky. 

' '  Here,  take  it,  and  be  gone  IM  she  snarled.  ' ' Take 
it  to  yore  fine  lord  of  a  man  an'  pore  it  down  his 
throat.  It  may  do  him  good,  and  it  may  not.  If 
the  right  sort  o'  rattler  struck  'im  deep  enough  he'll 
be  as  stiff  as  a  poker  by  the  time  you  git  to  him." 


CHAPTER  X 

CELESTE  took  the  bottle  and  sped  away.  It 
was  several  minutes  before  she  had  reached  a 
point  from  which  she  could  see  the  spot  where  she 
had  left  Hartley,  and  in  her  vast  forebodings  she  half 
expected  to  see  him  prone  on  the  ground.  She  was 
delighted,  therefore,  to  see  him  walking  along  the 
road  in  her  direction.  She  ran  at  the  top  of  her 
speed,  and  when  she  reached  him  she  was  out  of 
breath  and  could  not  utter  a  word.  With  shaking 
fingers  she  uncorked  the  flask  and  gasped  as  she  held 
it  to  his  lips. 

"Quick!  Quick !"  her  eyes  seemed  to  say  in 
flashes  of  despair. 

He  smiled.  "Poor  little  girl !"  he  said,  as  he  took 
the  bottle  and  raised  it  to  his  lips.  "And  all  this 
fuss  and  worry  over  a  big  hulk  of  a  man.  I'm 
ashamed  of  myself!     I  really  am!" 

"Drink!"  she  whispered,  "drink!"  And  she 
pushed  the  flask  toward  his  lips. 

He  drank  heavily,  and  coughed,  for  the  liquor  was 
very  strong,  and  fairly  rasped  his  throat. 

He  was  lowering  the  bottle,  but  she  pushed  his 
hand  upward  again.  "More,  more!"  she  urged,  her 
frightened  eyes  blazing. 

105 


NOBODY'S 

" Goodness  I"  he  tried  to  jest,  "you'll  have  me  so 
drunk  I  can't  walk."  But  he  obeyed  her.  The 
flask  was  almost  empty,  and  when  he  put  it  down 
she  examined  his  arm,  touching  it  daintily  with  her 
fingers. 

He  heard  her  utter  and  subdue  a  plaintive  little 
cry.  "It  looks  bad,"  she  said.  "It  is  awfully 
swollen  and  dark.  I'm  afraid  I  didn't  get  it  all 
out." 

"Bosh!"  He  swung  his  injured  arm  by  his  side 
and  laughed  mechanically  as  he  looked  tenderly  at 
her.  "I'm  all  right,  thanks  to  you.  I've  been 
thinking.  I  remember  now  that  it  is  said  to  be  a 
very  dangerous  thing  for  one  to  do  what  you  did. 
If  you  happen  to  have  any  little  abrasion  of  the  gums 
or  lips,  or  an  unsound  tooth,  it  would  be  as  bad  for 
you  as  for  me.    Let  me  see  your  mouth — won't  you  ?' ' 

"No;  it's  all  right.  She  shrugged  her  shoulders, 
glanced  up  the  road,  and  cried:  "Oh,  there  comes 
the  doctor!"  She  ran  in  the  direction  of  the  ap- 
proaching horse  and  buggy,  and  excitedly  signaled 
with  her  hand.  The  physician  saw  her,  and,  noting 
the  bandage  on  Hartley's  arm,  whipped  up  his 
horse  and  rapidly  bore  down  on  them. 

"Hey,  hey!  what's  this?"  He  reined  in  and 
sprang  to  the  ground. 

" Snake-bite!"  Celeste  said.    "A  big  rattlesnake." 

1 '  Lord !   you  don't  mean  it !     How  long  ago  ?' ' 

"Half  an  hour,  I  suppose,"  estimated  the  wounded 
man,  with  another  of  his  cool  smiles. 

1 06 


NOBODY'S 

Doctor  Lee  was  now  examining  the  swollen  mem- 
ber, his  face  quite  grave. 

"He  certainly  got  a  good  whack  at  you,  and  drove 
his  fangs  clean  to  the  bone,  and,  of  all  places  on  earth, 
within  a  foot  of  the  heart.  Who  made  this  ligature  ? 
It  is  as  tight  as  Dick's  hat-band.  I  couldn't  have 
beat  it  myself." 

Hartley  smiled  and  nodded  toward  Celeste.  "My 
regular  family  physician  happened  along  just  in 
the  nick  of  time.  She  is  only  standing  aside  now 
out  of  professional  courtesy." 

The  doctor  was  too  serious  for  jocular  remarks. 
He  turned  and  looked  straight  at  the  girl.  "Say, 
did  you  suck  the  poison  out  of  this  arm?" 

She  nodded,  her  eyes  on  the  ground. 

"And  got  that  whisky  for  him?" 

She  nodded  again,  still  avoiding  his  eyes. 

"Well,  I'll  be  dumswiveled!  The  whisky  won't 
do  any  particular  good,  but  you  saved  his  life. 
You'd  have  been  as  dead  as  a  door-nail,  sir,  in  no 
time,"  he  added  to  Hartley.  "Even  as  it  is,  we 
have  no  time  to  lose.  Get  into  my  rig.  I'll  drive 
you  to  my  house.  I've  got  an  antitoxine  there  that 
I'll  have  to  use.  I've  got  to  cut  that  wound  open 
and  get  all  that  stuff  out.  The  ligature  will  hold. 
What  did  I  tell  you  about  nursing?"  He  was  smil- 
ing admiringly  on  Celeste.  "Some  of  you  yellow 
girls  have  as  good  brains  as — " 

"Stop!"  Hartley,  who  was  advancing  to  the 
buggy,   suddenly  turned  on   the  doctor,   his  eyes 

107 


NOBODY'S 

flashing,  his  blood  rushing  into  his  face.  "What  do 
you  mean  by — by  speaking — by  using  such  ex- 
pressions to  her?" 

In  open  astonishment  the  physician  drew  back 
and  stared  at  his  patient.  Then  a  light  seemed  to 
break  on  him.  He  attributed  Hartley's  anger  to 
the  whisky  he  had  drunk,  and,  with  a  genial  smile 
at  the  girl,  he  said:  "Celeste  knows  I  meant  no 
disrespect.  I'm  sorry,  Celeste.  No  man  in  the 
State  is  freer  from  wounding  any  one's  feelings  than 
I  am.  I  was  only  trying  to  say  something  nice  in 
my  clumsy  way." 

"It's  all  right,"  Hartley  said;  "we'll  let  it  pass 
this  time,"     And  he  took  a  seat  in  the  buggy. 

"There  is  something  you  can  do  for  me,  if  you 
will?"  Doctor  Lee  said  to  Celeste,  after  he  had  got 
into  the  buggy  and  took  up  the  reins.  "Miss 
Cynthia  will  be  alarmed  when  her  brother  doesn't 
turn  up.  I  wish  you  would  send  word  to  her  that 
the  real  danger  is  over.  I'll  keep  him  at  my  house 
the  rest  of  the  day,  and  perhaps  to-night.  I  want 
to  watch  this  thing  closely  to  prevent  any  accidents. 
It  is  best  to  take  every  precaution  to  prevent  blood- 
poisoning." 

When  they  had  driven  away  Celeste  went  back 
and  picked  up  her  basket  of  fruit  and  walked  home- 
ward. Her  heart  was  beating  rapidly,  there  was  a 
glow  on  her  face  and  a  tingling  sensation  through 
all  her  body. 

"He  was  mad  at  the  doctor,"  she  said,  under  her 
108 


NOBODY'S 

breath.  "He  was  mad  at  him  for  just  saying  that 
to  me,  and  if  the  doctor  hadn't  explained,  wounded 
as  he  is,  he  would  have  struck  him.  I  saw  it  in  his 
eyes.  If  he  had  seen  Jeff  Daniels  catch  hold  of  me 
that  way  and  heard  what  he  hinted  at,  he  would 
have  killed  him.  Oh,  Gordon  is  good  and  noble,  like 
his  sister!  He  is  as  gentle  as  a  woman,  and — and 
he  seems  to — to  like  to  be  with  me.  I  wonder  if  he 
does?  I  think  he  is  sorry  for  me.  He  knows  I 
can't  help  my  condition,  and,  in  his  big,  generous 
heart,  he  is  sorry  for  me." 

Her  small  feet,  in  their  rapid  movement,  were 
raising  a  cloud  of  dust  which  trailed  behind  her  in 
the  hot  rays  of  the  sun.  She  choked  down  a  sob 
that  rose  in  her  throat.  The  effect  of  the  awful 
strain  on  her  nerves  was  showing  itself — she  had  a 
swimming  sensation  in  the  head.  The  trees,  the 
fences,  the  hills,  mountains,  and  fields  moved  as  if 
in  a  mist  before  her  eyes.  But  she  fought  the  weak- 
ness off  and  hurried  on  to  deliver  her  message. 

That  evening  after  dark  she  was  alone  in  her  un- 
lighted  room.  The  gravest  of  forebodings  had  beset 
her.  She  had  overheard  a  conversation  between  her 
mother  and  Elvira  at  the  fence.  Both  of  the  women 
seemed  to  think  that  the  danger  to  the  young  gentle- 
man was  by  no  means  past.  In  her  ignorance 
Elvira  had  opined  that,  while  Hartley  had  been  able 
under  the  stimulant  to  go  home  with  Doctor  Lee, 
the  venom  of  the  reptile  had  no  doubt  gone  all 

109 


NOBODY'S 

through  his  blood.  Doctor  Lee,  she  said,  wanted 
to  pretend  that  he  knew  what  he  was  doing,  but  he 
never  would  have  taken  Hartley  to  his  own  home 
if  the  case  had  not  been  a  bad  one.  Doctor  Clay, 
an  older  doctor,  lived  over  there,  and  Lee  wanted 
his  advice. 

"Dat  so,  dat  so,"  Celeste  heard  her  mother  agree- 
ing. "When  dey  got  a  rail  bad  case  on  hand  dey 
want  as  many  doctors  as  dey  kin  git,  ter  divide  de 
resk  and  'sponsibility." 

The  evening  crept  on.  The  moon  rose  and  threw 
its  rays  in  at  the  small-paned  window.  The  negroes 
in  a  cabin  close  by  were  singing  hymns.  One  of  the 
men,  in  a  loud,  declamatory  voice,  was  preaching  a 
sermon.  Celeste  was  most  miserable.  She  went  to 
her  bed  and  knelt  down  and  tried  to  pray  for  the 
safety  of  her  new  friend,  but  she  had  prayed  so 
much  and  always  in  vain  for  other  things  that  the 
words  refused  to  shape  themselves  into  any  form  of 
request,  and  she  could  only  bury  her  face  in  the 
coverlet  and  utter  dry,  tearless  sobs  of  sheer  despair. 

Presently  she  heard  the  gate-latch  click,  a  light 
step  on  the  walk,  and  Cynthia  Hartley  asking  her 
mother  where  Celeste  was.  In  another  moment  Miss 
Hartley  stood  on  the  threshold  of  the  room,  and, 
seeing  the  girl  in  the  moonlight  at  a  window,  she 
ran  to  her  and  threw  her  arms  about  her,  drew  her 
head  to  her  shoulder  and  kissed  her. 

1 '  You  saved  his  life  I"  Miss  Hartley  sobbed.  ' '  The 
doctor  says  the  danger  is  over,  and  that  you  did  it. 

no 


NOBODY'S 

Oh,  Celeste,  I'm  so  grateful !  They  told  me  all  about 
it.  The  doctor  gives  you  the  full  credit,  and  Gordon 
begged  me  to  hurry  here  to  relieve  your  mind." 

Later  that  evening,  as  Hartley  lay  in  the  big,  cool 
guest-room  at  Doctor  Lee's  trying  to  sleep  as  he  had 
been  directed,  through  the  open  window  from  across 
the  dewy  fields  came  the  music  of  a  violin.  The 
joyous  tones  ran  and  leaped  and  frolicked  as  with  the 
very  starlight. 

He  got  up  and  went  and  sat  on  the  sill  of  the  open 
window.  Resting  his  feverish  brow  on  his  wounded 
arm,  he  cried: 

"Here  and  now  I  swear  before  God  that  I'll  work 
for  her,  fight  for  her,  to  the  end  of  my  life.  I'll  lift 
the  cloud  from  her,  rescue  her  from  the  shackles 
which  rasp  her  gentle  spirit  if  it  is  in  the  power  of 
man  to  do  it.  She  is  wronged.  I  don't  know 
exactly  how,  but  she  hasn't  had  a  fair  deal." 


CHAPTER  XI 

THREE  days  later,  Hartley,  fully  recovered,  was 
in  the  library  chatting  with  his  uncle  and  aunt, 
who,  the  night  before,  had  arrived  from  Nashville. 
Colonel  Corbet  Gorman  was  a  slender  man  of  seventy, 
with  iron-gray  hair,  stubby  mustache,  short  goatee, 
and  a  complexion  that  was  inclined  to  sallowness. 
He  looked  the  part  of  the  ante-bellum  gentleman  of 
leisure  who  had  never  adapted  himself  to  the  new 
conditions  enforced  on  most  of  his  class  by  recon- 
struction. He  and  his  wife,  a  lady  of  the  same  age 
as  himself,  who  was  a  perfect  brunette,  without  a 
thread  of  gray,  owed  their  present  home  to  the 
generosity  of  their  niece,  and  their  income  to  the 
liberality  of  their  nephew,  who  on  the  first  day  of 
every  month  forwarded  a  check  from  New  York. 
Mrs.  Gorman  was  engaged  in  a  delicate  piece  of 
needlework  as  she  sat  in  one  of  the  easy-chairs,  and 
the  Colonel  was  smoking  one  of  Gordon's  cigars. 

"  You  certainly  had  a  narrow  escape,"  he  was  say- 
ing, "and  it  was  mighty  lucky  that  Celeste  happened 
along  when  she  did.  She  would  give  her  life,  poor 
thing!  to  help  your  sister,  and  I'll  bet  she  didn't  once 
think  of  her  own  danger." 

"She's  a  decidedly  gentle  and  ladylike  creature," 

112 


NOBODY'S 

the  aunt  observed.  "Well,  I  don't  wonder  at  it,  for 
Mam'  Ansie,  for  some  reason  or  other,  has  kept  her 
absolutely  from  any  sort  of  contact  with  the  negroes. 
Ansie  herself  has  never  treated  her  as  a  daughter, 
but  rather  as  her  young  mistress.  I  have  an  idea 
I  know  why  she  is  so  silly  in  that  way,  but  it  will  do 
no  good  to  go  into  such  details  with  a  young  man 
like  you,  Gordon." 

"There  is  one  thing  I  wish  you'd  do,  my  boy." 
The  Colonel  glanced  furtively  over  his  shoulder  tow- 
ard the  door.  "I  thought  I  heard  Cynthia  in  the 
hall.  She  would  be  mad  if  she  knew  I'd  mentioned 
the  matter  to  you.  She  won't  stand  a  bit  of  criti- 
cism. She  is  very  sensitive  on  the  question,  but  she 
thinks  you  are  as  wise  as  a  judge,  and  she  will  listen 
to  you.  I  wish  you  would  check  her  up  just  a  little 
bit.  The  truth  is,  we've  got  ourselves  in  rather  bad 
odor  with  these  mountain  people,  and  it  is  growing 
worse  as  time  passes.  By  accident  one  day  down  at 
the  store  I  happened  to  mention  that  your  father 
before  the  war  had  freed  his  slaves  and  helped  many 
of  them  to  cross  over  into  the  North.  In  the  same 
connection  I  dropped  that  he  was  a  sympathizer 
with  the  Union,  having  had  business  affairs  in  the 
North  and  naturally  foreseen  the  weakness  of  the 
Southern  cause.  You  see,  I  didn't  think  I'd  be 
misunderstood,  as  I  am  a  Confederate  veteran,  wear 
my  badge,  and  attend  their  meetings,  but  they  got 
the  whole  thing  mixed,  and  I've  heard  you  and  your 
sister  put  down  as  Black  Republicans  and  Yanks 

113 


NOBODY'S 

dyed  in  the  wool.  You  see,  that  added  to  the  report 
that  went  out  about  Celeste's  having  the  boldness  to 
sit  at  the  table  with  Cynthia  and — " 

With  a  lowering  brow  and  lips  that  were  twitching, 
Hartley  rose. 

"We  mustn't  discuss  this  thing,"  he  said,  warmly. 
"It.  is  unpleasant  to  me.  My  sister  is  handling  a 
most  delicate  situation  as  well  as  she  possibly  can, 
and  I  am  in  thorough  sympathy  with  her.  Cynthia 
simply  has  a  big,  untrammeled  soul  in  her — she's  a 
genuine  woman,  and  doesn't  let  these  people  hold  her 
back  from  what  she  believes  to  be  her  duty.  She 
knows — she  sees  the  suffering  of  that  poor  child,  and 
— but  what  is  the  use  to  go  into  it  ?  C61este  saved 
my  life  at  a  great  risk  to  her  own,  and  I  can't  sit  and 
hear  her  misfortunes  spoken  of  in — in  any  light  or 
inconsiderate  way.  The  poor  girl's  life,  to  her  re- 
fined nature,  is  nothing  less  than  a  tragedy,  and — " 

"Of  course,  of  course."  The  Colonel's  brows  were 
drawn  together  in  slow  astonishment,  and  he  stared 
perplexedly  at  his  nephew.  "Of  course  you  are 
right,  Gordon.  I'd  be  the  last  man  alive  to  hurt  the 
feelings  of  either  Celeste  or  her  mother.  I  was  never 
accused  of  unkindness  to  my  own  blacks,  and  no 
planter  in  Kentucky  was  kinder  than  my  father,  but 
you  see — if  you  will  look  at  it  calmly,  and — and  for- 
get your  own  peculiar  debt  to  the  girl — you  will  see, 
I  say,  that  the  very  kindness  on  your  sister's  part  is 
bringing  trouble  down  on  her.  Celeste  would  have 
been  allowed  to  go  on  her  way  unmolested  that  day 

114 


NOBODY'S 

by  those  rough  mountaineers,  but  after  the  story  got 
afloat  that  she  was  on  an  equal  footing  here  at  Fair- 
view — why — " 

"I  tell  you  I  don't  want  to  go  into  it!"  Hartley 
cried  out,  his  face  white,  his  lips  quivering.  It  was 
plain  that  he  was  only  restraining  an  outburst 
through  sheer  will  power. 

"Your  uncle  means,  Gordon,  dear,"  Mrs.  Gorman 
put  in,  pacifically — ' '  at  any  rate,  I've  heard  him  say  he 
was  afraid  that  Cynthia  and  her  odd  whim  in  regard 
to  Celeste  would  make  trouble  for  the  colored  peo- 
ple themselves.  Many  negroes  have  been  unjustly 
lynched  because  of  the  boldness  of  the  worst  of  them. 
These  mountain  people,  your  uncle  thinks,  look  on 
Cynthia  as  setting  a  terrible  example  and  spoiling 
the  negroes  generally.  Why,  if  you  will  really  look 
at  it  calmly,  you'll  see  that  Celeste  is  dressed  better 
than  the  mountain  white  girls ;  she  is  better  educated, 
and — well,  the  girl  actually  feels  an  innate  superiority 
that  sticks  out  of  her  constantly.  She  shows  it,  and 
her  mother  will  hurl  it  at  any  poor  white  person  that 
comes  along.  No  doubt  Celeste  has  good  blood  in 
her,  and  may  be  almost  an  absolute  reproduction  of 
her  white  grandmother,  who  was — " 

Hartley,  his  face  still  darkly  overcast,  laid  a  gentle 
hand  on  his  aunt's  head.  He  could  speak  sharply 
to  his  uncle,  but  it  was  not  in  him  to  make  a  blunt 
retort  to  her.  "Don't  talk  about  it,  please,  dear 
aunt,"  he  said.  "The  whole  thing  is  unpleasant  to 
me." 

9  US 


NOBODY'S 

"Very  well."  She  smiled  up  at  him.  "You  are 
a  dear  boy,  and  your  heart  is  so  big  it  is  fairly  burst- 
ing with  pity  for  the  unfortunate.  Ah,  husband, 
here  is  Dingo  with  the  fresh  mint  for  your  julep! 
Make  Gordon  join  you." 

4 'Not  this  morning,  thanks,"  Hartley  answered 
his  uncle's  smiling  invitation.  "I  think  a  cocktail 
is  better,  but  I  don't  care  for  either  at  this  time  of 
day." 

He  left  his  uncle  concocting  his  favorite  drink  on 
the  table,  and  went  out  on  the  veranda.  Glancing 
toward  the  negro  quarter,  he  saw  Mam'  Ansie  trudg- 
ing along  the  road  which  led  toward  Lowndesville. 
Stepping  down  on  the  grass,  Hartley  walked  round 
the  northern  end  of  the  house  to  the  stables.  He 
had  nothing  in  view  except  reaching  some  point 
where  he  could  avoid  his  uncle  and  a  continuation 
of  a  conversation  that  had  become  actually  painful. 

In  the  door  of  one  of  the  empty  stables  he  saw 
Pomp,  his  own  special  servant.  Seated  on  the  ground 
in  the  sunshine,  the  negro  was  mending  an  old 
leather  harness,  stitching  with  a  big  needle  and 
heavy  thread.  Seeing  him,  Pomp  glanced  up,  the 
whites  of  his  eyes  showing  in  the  red-rimmed  slits 
of  the  dark  skin. 

"Dingo  say  des  now,"  he  tittered,  in  high  satis- 
faction, "dat  he  gwine  ter  mek  yo'  mouf  water  wid 
dat  mint-julep,  but  I  see  you  ain't  botherin'  yo'se'f 
about  it.  Huh!  dat  too  old-fashion'  fer  er  high-up 
young  blood  lak  you,  suh." 

116 


NOBODY'S 

Hartley  smiled  indulgently  as  he  paused  and 
stood  over  the  worker.  He  had  scarcely  heard  the 
man's  remark,  so  intent  was  his  thought  on  graver 
things.  "I  saw  Mam'  Ansie  going  toward  Lowndes- 
ville  just  now,"  he  said,  tentatively,  and  yet  in  a 
tone  that  he  tried  to  make  most  casual.  "Surely 
she  wouldn't  attempt  to  walk  so  far  in  the  hot 
sun." 

"Humph!"  Pomp  sniffed,  as  he  drew  the  flaxen 
thread  through  a  round  cake  of  yellow  beeswax,  and 
twisted  the  end  to  a  fine  point,  that  it  might  pass 
through  the  eye  of  his  needle,  "Ansie  ain't  goin' 
ter  no  Lowndesville.  She  des  gwine  on  one  er  her 
ja'nts  over  ter  see  Mam'  Jennie  at  we-all's  old  place. 
I  kin  always  tell  when  Ansie  seed  ha'nts  en  heard 
sounds  in  de  night,  kase  she  bound  ter  run  straight 
ter  Jake  en  Jennie." 

"Oh,  I  see!"  the  young  man  said,  reflectively. 
"I  suppose  she  really  believes  in  such  things,  but 
you  don't,  do  you  Pomp?" 

"Well,  yesser  I  do,"  the  negro  said,  frankly,  and 
he  nodded  his  kinky  head  with  considerable  vigor; 
"but,  young  marster,  I  don't  b'lieve  sperits  gwine 
ter  bother  a  pusson  less'n  dey  ain't  satisfied  'bout 
suppen  dey  lef  crooked  when  dey  die.  Dey  ain't 
'sturb  me  much,  but  dey  certney  do  hang  'round 
some  niggers.  Huh,  I  wouldn't  be  in  Ansie' s  place 
fer  no  pile  er  money  ever  stacked  up.  No,  suh — no, 
siree,  not  dis  chicken!" 

1 '  You  say  you  wouldn't  ?"  Hartley  leaned  against 
117 


NOBODY'S 

the  jamb  of  the  door.  "Do  you  think  Ansie  is 
bothered  that  way?" 

"Is  she?  Huh!  dat  'oman  ain't  free  from  um 
hardly  a  night  in  de  year." 

"How  do  you  account  for  it?"  Hartley  led  him 
along,  adroitly.  "I  suppose  there  must  be  some 
particular  reason?" 

"Yasser,  she  know —  Ansie  know  pow'ful  well 
what  wrong,  but  she  ain't  gwine  tell  it  all  ter  me, 
nur  you,  nur  nobody.  You  see,  Marse  Gordon, 
Ansie  was  all  mixed  up  in  dat  killin'  over  dar  uv 
dem  two  young  mens  in  de  prime  er  life,  en  was  de 
onliest  one  wid  young  Miss  Dorothy  when  she  die 
so  miser'ble  en  lonely  in  dat  old  house.  Dem's  de 
ha'nts,  ef  you  b'lieve  me.  Dey  cayn't  rest  whar  dey 
is — dey  des  bleeged  ter  hang  round  whar  dey  hat 
so  much  trouble,  en  lef  deir  matters  so  tangled  up, 
wid  old  marster  hat  in'  two  of  um,  en  glory  in'  in  turr 
one  dat  fit  fer  'im  en  fell  daid  in  his  tracks.  Shucks! 
dat  was  er  awful  time.  I  never  want  to  see  anurr 
sech  er  row." 

"You  were  there,  then?" 

"Yasser,  I  was  dar  en  seed  it  wid  my  own  eyes.  I 
ain't  tor  nobody  dat,  but  I  did.  I  seed  it.  I  didn't 
want  ter  git  mix  up  in  dat  inquest,  en  I  hid  out." 

Hartley  seated  himself  on  the  door-step  and  clasped 
his  knee  between  his  hands.  It  was  as  if  he  were 
trying  to  keep  his  vast  interest  from  betraying  itself 
in  face,  eyes,  or  voice.  He  reached  forward  and 
pretended  to  examine  a  seam  the  negro  had  made. 

118 


NOBODY'S 

"I  have  never  heard  how  the  thing  came  about/ ' 
he  said,  lightly,  and  yet  he  held  the  negro's  eyes  by 
the  fixed  stare  of  his  own. 

"Why,  you  see,  suh,  old  marster  done  hear  dat 
Miss  Dorothy  been  sett  in'  'er  mind  on  dat  young 
Martin  Rawson,  en  him  en  young  Marse  Cary  had 
done  had  fits  en  spasms  erbout  it,  en  bofe  of  'em 
done  been  tongue-lashin'  de  po'  young  lady  'bout 
it.  I  been  tol'  dat  she  give  'er  promise  dat  she 
gwine  ter  quit  thinkin'  'bout  de  young  man,  but  as 
it  turn  out,  dat  mus'  'a'  been  er  trick  she  got  up, 
fer  she  seed  'im  time  atter  time.  Ansie  was  a  likely 
young  gal  den,  en  she  was  de  go-between  dat  toted 
letters  en  fetched  de  answers.  Well,  suh,  I  was  in 
de  big  house  de  night  'fo'  de  killin'.  Ansie  en  young 
miss  lef '  home  des  atter  dark,  en  nobody  know  whar 
dey  went.  Dey  certney  would  er  stay  at  home, 
dough,  ef  dey  hatter  knowed  dat  young  marster  was 
dar  on  de  lookout.  You  see,  old  marster  en  Marse 
Cary  done  pack  up  dey  things  en  say  dey  gwine  ter 
Nashville  fer  er  week  stay  at  de  racin' -track.  But 
dat  must  'a'  been  a  sly  trick,  fer  young  Marse  Cary 
slip  back  home  en  go  all  over  de  house  lookin'  fer 
Ansie  en  his  sister.  I  tried  ter  keep  out  er  his  way, 
kase  he  look  lak  er  crazy  man,  but  he  called  me  ter 
his  room  several  times  ter  ax  questions,  en  sence  I 
was  bo'n  I  never  seed  er  live  man  look  so  awful.  He 
had  two  pistols  lyin'  on  his  bureau,  an  he  stuck  one 
um  in  his  coat-pocket.  He  ax  me  questions  wuss'n 
er  judge  on  de  stand,  en  I  hat  ter  tell  'im  er  few 

119 


NOBODY'S 

things  I  knowed.  All  dat  night  he  paced  up  en 
down  de  hall,  en  out  on  de  po'ch,  en  in  de  ya'd, 
waitin' — waitin'  fer  young  miss  en  Ansie  ter  git 
home.  I  couldn't  shet  my  eyes,  en  so  I  stayed  up 
en  watched  'im.  I  knowed  suppin'  awful  was  sho' 
gwine  ter  happen,  en  when  day  was  almost  broke 
en  Ansie  en  young  miss  come  sneakin'  in  at  de  back 
gate  en  go  ter  deir  quarters  up-sta'rs,  I  seed  Marse 
Cary  watchin'  um  fum  'hind  de  hedge.  He  stood 
dar  several  minutes,  en  den  he  went  in  at  de  front 
do'  en  stalk  straight  up  ter  young  miss's  room.  I 
got  under  de  window  outside  en  listen.  I  hear  him 
open  her  do'  en  hear  bofe  young  miss  en  Ansie 
scream  lak  dey  surprised  when  dey  see  'im.  Den 
I  hear  young  miss  say: 

' ' '  Brur,  when  you  git  home  ?' 

"En  I  ain't  hear  'im  say  er  wud.  Den  atter  while 
I  hear  young  miss  say : 

'"How  you  happen  ter  git  here  so  early  in  de 
mawnin'  ?' 

"En  den  I  hear  'im  speak  fer  de  fus  time,  en  I  ain't 
never  in  all  my  life  hear  his  voice  soun'  lak  it  did. 
You'd  'a'  'low  'twas  some  urr  man  talkin'.  I  hear 
'im  tell  'er  she  done  drag  de  family  in  de  mire,  en 
sunk  lower  dan  any  bad  street  'oman  erlive.  He 
say  he  done  ketch  up  wid  'er,  but  he  ain't  gwine  let 
his  pa  know  it  so  awful,  kase  it  ud  lay  'im  out  daid. 
He  called  his  sister  names  dat  I  ain't  gwine  ter 
speak — names  I  wouldn't  give  er  egg-suckin'  hown- 
dog  myse'f.     Den  I  hear  young  miss  talkin'.     She 

120 


NOBODY'S 

was  scared,  but  she  talk'  ter  'im  straight  fum  de 
shoulder.  I  don't  know  'zactly  what  she  mean, 
kase  she  use  big  wuds,  but  she  tell  'im  suppin'  ur 
other  'bout  she  en  Marse  Rawson  is  done  made  deir 
own  laws  dat  is  as  good  in  Gawd's  sight  es  dem  made 
in  cote-houses  en  ch'ches,  en  dat  ef  dey  own  con- 
sciences is  clear  en  expect  to  git  er  preacher  de  fust 
chance,  nobody  else  hat  de  right  ter  step  in  en  object. 

"Den  I  hear  young  marster  tell  'er  dat  he  gwine 
ter  kill  de  man  on  sight,  en  shoot  hisse'f  in  down- 
right shame,  kase  he  can't  bear  ter  look  his  pa  in 
de  face  en  see  his  surlerin'. 

"I  don't  know  what  happen  den,  but  I  hear  Ansie 
scream  en  suppin'  strack  de  flo'  wid  er  thump,  en  I 
know  young  miss  is  fainted.  I  hear  young  marster 
comin'  down  de  sta'rs  en  cross  de  po'ch,  en  step  down 
in  de  ya'd.  Den,  great  Lawd!  what  you  reckon  I 
seed?  Look  lak  de  devil  was  leadin'  'im  inter  er 
trap.  It  was  young  Marse  Rawson  comin'  out  de 
woods  across  de  road.  He  didn't  stop,  but  walked 
bold  in  de  front  gate.  He  hat  young  miss  pink  shawl 
on  his  arm;  I  reckon  she  mus'  have  forgot  it  when 
she  was  wid  'im.  I  reckon  he  was  gwine  ter  slip 
roun'  de  house  en  hand  it  in  ter  Ansie,  but  young 
marster  was  standin'  'hind  de  big  oak  on  de  lef '-hand 
side  er  de  walk  wid  er  pistol  in  his  han',  en  he  step 
out  en  face  'im.  I  couldn't  hear  'zackly  what  Marse 
Cary  say,  kase  it  sound  way  down  in  his  throat,  but 
I  hear  Martin  Rawson  call  out: 

"Don't  shoot,  Lowndes;    be  sensible.     I  don't 

121 


NOBODY'S 

'spute  what  yo'  sister  done  admit,  en  I'm  raidy  en 
willin'  ter  do  de  right  thing.  I'm  er  gen'man,  suh, 
en  I'll  do  er  gen 'man's  part — right  off,  too,  kase  dat 
mus'  be  done, 'anyhow,  ter  pertect  de  lady's  good 
name.  Ef  you  en  yo'  pa  had  act  right  no  harm 
would  er  come.' 

'  'He  was  holdin'  up  his  hands,  sorter  warnin'-like, 
but  Marse  Cary  was  p' in  tin'  straight  at  him. 

"'Draw  yo'  pistol,'  he  say,  en  he  called  de  young 
man  de  wuss  name  one  white  man  kin  call  er  nurr. 

"  'I  can't  take  dat,  Lowndes,'  I  hear  turr  one  say. 
'No  man  can.  You  her  brur  en  mine  befo'  Gawd,  ef 
not  befo'  man,  but  if  you  repeat  dat  I'll  des  hat  ter 
fight.' 

"Den  I  hear  Marse  Cary  laugh  out  lak  er  crazy 
man,  en  he  kept  p' in  tin'  his  pistol,  en  loud  ernough 
to  be  heard  clean  up-sta'rs  he  thowed  de  bad  name 
at  'im  three  times  han'-rurinin'.  Den  de  urr  one 
clap  his  han'  'hind  'im,  en  I  seed  de  pistol  come  out. 
Marse  Cary  shot  twice — de  urr  man  stagger  en  his 
gun  go  off  once.  I  seed  Marse  Cary  swing  to  one 
side  en  hear  'im  grunt  lak  he  in  pain,  en  den  he  shot 
two  or  t'ree  mo'  times.  I  couldn't  count  um,  fer 
de  next  minute  de  two  uv  um  was  lyin'  dar  bleedin' 
on  de  walk." 

"I  think  I  have  heard  the  rest,"  Hartley  said,  a 
far-off  look  in  his  eyes,  a  pink  flush  stealing  into  his 
rigid  cheeks.  He  looked  at  the  negro  in  silence  for  a 
moment,  and  then  he  said,  a  certain  eager  tension 
in  his  tone: 

122 


NOBODY'S 

"Mam'  Ansie  must  have  been  a  great  comfort  to 
your  young  mistress  through  her  trouble,  after  her 
father  went  away  and  wouldn't  recognize  her.  I 
suppose  her  dau — I  suppose  Celeste  was  not  born  at 
the  time  of  the  shooting?" 

"No,  suh,  oh  no,  suh,  Celeste  wasn't  bo'n  den — 
not  fer  several  months  atter  dat.  Nobody  know 
'zactly  when  dat  chile  was  bo'n,  suh,  kase,  you  see, 
Ansie  stayed  so  close  in  de  house  tendin'  on  'er  young 
mistiss  dat  she  never  show  'er  haid.  I  never  once 
lay  my  eyes  on  'er  fum  dat  day  till  de  baby  was 
crawlin'  'bout  de  flo'.  Mam'  Jennie  en  Uncle  Jake 
go  atter  everything  dey  need  en  fetch  it  in  ter  um, 
en  old  marster  lef  um  all  high  en  dry,  en  dar  was 
lots  er  talk  'bout  he  is  plumb  crazy,  en  dat  young 
miss  was  afeard  he  was  comin'  ter  kill  'er." 

"I  wonder" — Hartley  cleared  his  throat,  and  his 
voice  quivered  as  his  eyes  bore  down  on  the  swarthy 
face  before  him — "I  was  wondering  if  the  presence 
of  a  baby  about  the  house  at  such  a  trying  time 
would  not  naturally  disturb  a  woman  so  wrought  up 
as  your  young  mistress  must  have  been." 

"I  don't  think  young  miss  was  in  'er  right  mind 
fer  er  while  'bout  dat  time,  Marse  Gordon,  fer  she 
certney  did  act  quar.  Sometimes  she  seem  ter  want 
de  baby  erbout,  en  den  ergin  she'd  fair  go  inter  tan- 
trums. You  know  folks  say  dat  Marse  Cary  was 
Celeste's  father?  Well,  it  seem  lak  my  young  mis- 
tiss was  afeard  old  marster  would  hear  his  son  hat 
er  chile  lak  dat,  en  be  so  mad  he'd  come  en  kill  um 

123 


NOBODY'S 

all.     I  know  dat  was  what  must  er  been  on  young 
miss's  mind  when  she  died." 

"You  think  so?"  Hartley's  voice  was  dry  and 
husky.  "But  it  is  easy  to  be  mistaken,  Pomp. 
Men  are  not  close  observers.  Now,  if  a  woman  were 
telling  me  about  this,  I'd — " 

"I  know  what  I'm  talkin'  'bout."  The  harness- 
mender  jerked  the  stitching  of  a  leather  band  by  way 
of  emphasis,  and  made  the  beeswax  hiss  as  he  slid 
it  along  the  strand  of  flax.  ' '  I  was  dar  when  de  po' 
lady  was  breathin'  'er  las'  bref.  Ansie  was  so  bad 
scared  dat  she  called  me  in  de  room  ter  help  'er.  De 
baby  was  on  young  miss's  baid,  en  young  miss  was 
cry  in'  en  takin'  on  powerful,  en  I  hear  'er  say: 

"'My  pa  mus'  never  fin'  out;  he  would  kill  my 
po'  lill  darlin',  en  I  can't  stan'  dat.' 

"I  reckon  she  mus'  er  loved  it*  Marse  Gordon,  kase 
it  did  look  powerful  lak  my  po'  young  marster  'bout 
de  nose  en  eyes,  en  I  reckon  young  miss's  mind  was 
not  at  res'  kase  it  was  her  doin's  dat  caused  'er  brur 
ter  git  kilt.  You  see  dat's  why  de  ha'nts  hang  round 
Ansie  so  much.  Young  miss's  sperit  can't  rest  in  de 
grave,  en  young  Marse  Cary  come  ter  look  atter  his 
child.  You  see  dat  why  Ansie  fetch  up  Celeste  so 
much  lake  er  white  pusson.  She  know  what  young 
marster  en  his  sister  want  done,  en  she  doin'  de  bes' 
de  po'  'oman  kin.  Of  course,  she  got  some  money, 
en — 

1 '  Money  ?' '  Hartley  repeated,  softly.  ' '  How  could 
Mam'  Ansie  get  money?" 

124 


NOBODY'S 

1 '  Young  miss  lef '  it  ter  'er, "  Pomp  declared.  ' '  Dat 
same  day  I  seed  de  tin  box  wid  some  er  de  bills 
stickin'  out  roun'  de  lid,  en  atter  Ansie  made  me  go 
out  er  de  room  I  listen  outside  en  hear  young  miss 
tell  'er  ter  hide  it  in  some  safe  place  en  spare  no 
'spense,  ef  she  don't  she  gwine  ter  ha'nt  'er  night 
en  day." 

Again  Hartley's  voice  shook  and  the  tense  expres- 
sion had  returned  to  his  eyes  when  he  spoke: 

"As  you  remember  your  young  mistress,  did  she 
look  anything  like — like  Celeste  does  now?" 

"Es  much  erlak,  Marse  Gordon,  es  two  black- 
eyed  peas,  en,  mo'  dan  dat,  dey  bofe  got  de  self-same 
sweet  voices  en  patien',  gentle  way  wid  high  en  low. 
Celeste  is  quick  en  loves  ter  read  books  en  play  on 
de  fiddle,  en  mek  pictures,  en  so  did  my  young 
mistiss.  In  fact,  de  fiddle  Celeste  got  now  en  love  so 
much  is  de  one  young  marster  give  his  sister.  Ansie 
kept  it  fer  Celeste,  'long  wid  er  lots  er  other  trinkets 
my  po'  young  mistiss  hat  when  she  died." 

Ten  minutes  later,  as  Hartley  was  striding  across 
the  meadow,  his  heart  pounding  like  a  trip-hammer, 
he  looked  up  at  the  blue  sky,  where  snowy  clouds 
were  being  driven  along  by  the  upper  currents  of 
air,  and  cried  under  his  breath: 

"I  thank  God  for  sending  me  here!  I'll  work  it 
out  if  it  takes  a  lifetime.  And  if  I  do — if  I  do, 
I'll  lay  her  freedom  at  her  feet,  and  watch  the  flare 
of  joy  in  her  face.  God  grant  that  it  may  be  as  I 
suspect!     She  has  suffered  enough,  and  can  bear 

125 


NOBODY'S 

no  more!  But  I  must  be  cautious.  It  would  be 
cruel  to  raise  hopes  only  to  blast  them.  No,  Celeste 
must  not  dream  of  this.  I  don't  believe  she  has  a 
drop  of  negro  blood  in  her  veins — not  a  drop.  Mam' 
Ansie  is  not  that  sweet  girl's  mother.  She  couldn't 
be.     It  is  a  damnable  lie." 


CHAPTER  XII 

HARTLEY  strode  on  across  the  meadow,  his 
step  buoyant  and  free.  His  body  seemed  an 
imponderable  thing  which  had  little  to  do  with  his 
bounding  spirit.  On  his  right  a  negro  was  cutting 
clover,  and  leaving  it  in  fragrant  swathes  behind 
him.  Farther  away  in  a  cotton-field  another  negro 
was  plowing,  and,  following  him,  with  hoes  that 
tinkled  on  the  stony  ground,  were  his  wife  and  sev- 
eral half -bare  children.  On  and  on,  Hartley  walked 
till  he  had  crossed  the  meadow  and  reached  the  spot 
where  Celeste  had  rendered  him  such  invaluable 
assistance.  He  had  gone  there  several  times  of 
late.  It  was  sweet  to  recall  the  circumstance  in 
every  particular.  How  her  great  pathetic  eyes 
haunted  him!  Her  young,  rounded  breast  had  vis- 
ibly throbbed  in  her  anxiety  over  his  peril.  Her 
tender,  young  face  had  held  the  startled  hues  of 
death.  Was  there  anything  incongruous  in  his  pas- 
sionate desire  to  do  her  a  good  turn  and  lift  the 
shadowy  horror  which  brooded  over  her  life  ? 

Suddenly  his  heart  bounded  in  sheer  delight. 
He  had  not  expected  to  see  her,  and  yet  surely  that 
was  she  gathering  ferns  on  the  bank  of  the  brook 
among  the  bushes  on  the  right.     Fearing  he  might 

127 


NOBODY'S 

be  mistaken,  and  not  wishing  to  approach  without 
excuse  any  stranger  of  the  neighborhood,  he  kept 
himself  concealed  among  the  bushes  of  the  unfenced 
land,  and  gradually  approached  nearer  the  form 
that  had  caught  his  attention.  It  was  not  in  view 
now,  but  he  was  going  toward  it.  He  had  got  quite 
near  the  spot,  and  was  peering  right  and  left,  up 
and  down,  for  another  glimpse  of  the  form,  when 
he  heard  a  man's  gruff  voice  call  out: 

"Aha!  you  gave  me  the  slip  t'other  day,  you 
pretty,  white-faced  devil!"  And  there  was  an  exult- 
ant laugh.  "The  old  woman  wouldn't  stand  for  it. 
She'd  'a'  raised  hell,  and  so  I  had  to  let  you  slide. 
You  wouldn't  'a'  come  here  if  you'd  knowed  I  was 
about,  but  I  was  a-watchin'.  By  gum,  I've  watched 
yore  mammy's  house  every  day  since  then  and 
waited  and  waited  for  you  to  stray  off  alone.  Now, 
look  here,  gal,  you've  just  got  to  have  common  sense. 
I  like  you.  Dang  it,  I  like  yore  looks.  I'm  not  the 
sort  that  runs  after  yaller  women,  but,  by  gum,  you 
are  different.  I'd  never  hold  the  little  streak  of 
black  you  got  agin  you.  Say,  wait  a  minute.  I 
ain't  goin'  to  hurt  you." 

There  was  a  startled  exclamation  from  a  feminine 
voice,  a  scrambling  of  heavy  feet,  and  a  woman's 
scream  rang  out. 

"Dry  up,  you  damned  little  trick!  I'm  not  goin' 
to  swallow  you  whole.  I  just  want  one  kiss,  and 
by  all  that's  holy,  I—" 

But  Hartley  had  bounded  forward,  the  whole 
128 


NOBODY'S 

awful  situation  breaking  on  him  in  a  flash.  He 
was  just  in  time  to  see  Jeff  Daniels's  uncouth  form, 
as,  with  his  uncoated  back  turned,  the  man  stood 
wrestling  with  Celeste.  Just  then  she  uttered  an- 
other cry,  but  it  was  smothered  by  the  broad,  red 
hand  the  man  had  forced  over  her  lips.  In  trying 
to  hold  her,  the  brute  was  turned  round  so  that  he 
failed  to  note  Hartley's  approach.  Daniels  raised 
his  flushed  face  just  as  Hartley,  with  the  force  of  a 
battering-ram,  sent  his  clenched  fist  crushing  into 
it.  As  if  stunned  by  the  awful  impact,  the  man's 
arms  relaxed.  Celeste  slid  to  the  ground  and 
dodged  to  one  side.  Recovering  somewhat  and 
evading  another  thrust  from  Hartley's  brawny  arm, 
he  staggered  backward  almost  blinded  and  thrust 
his  hand  into  the  hip  pocket  of  his  loose  trousers. 
He  drew  out  a  revolver.  Hartley  heard  the  click 
of  the  hammer  as  it  was  cocked.  The  next  in- 
stant his  instinct  told  him  he  would  be  out  of  the 
man's  way,  and  Celeste  in  his  power.  Even  in  the 
face  of  his  own  peril  her  safety  was  the  paramount 
thing — it  was  the  force  which  rescued  them  both, 
for  as  if  shot  from  a  cannon  his  body  went  forward. 
The  revolver  was  presented  at  his  breast,  but 
Daniels's  finger  seemed  powerless.  With  his  left 
hand  Hartley  knocked  the  weapon  aside.  With  his 
right  he  struck  the  bleeding  face;  once,  twice,  and 
at  the  third  blow  the  mountaineer  fell  to  the  earth 
and  lay  limp  and  motionless.  Picking  up  the  re- 
volver, Hartley  looked  for  Celeste.     Pale  as  death 

129 


NOBODY'S 

could  have  made  her,  she  stood  on  the  bank  of  the 
brook,  a  wondrous  appeal  blended  with  terror  in 
her  eyes. 

"Don't  be  frightened,"  Hartley  said,  most  gently. 
"The  trouble  is  all  over  now." 

She  made  an  effort  as  if  to  speak,  but  though  her 
lips  formed  words,  no  sound  escaped  them,  and 
she  still  eyed  the  prostrate  man  as  if  unable  to 
realize  his  helplessness.  With  his  back  to  Daniels, 
Hartley  was  making  every  effort  in  his  power  to 
soothe  her,  when  she  suddenly  cried  out  again  and 
pointed  to  the  man.  Hartley  turned  and  saw 
Daniels  rising  to  his  feet. 

"Run  away!"  Hartley  said  to  her,  in  a  calm  voice. 
"You  mustn't  see  it!  I'll  have  to  do  my  duty. 
You'd  hot  be  safe  otherwise.     Run!" 

But  she  moved  only  a  few  feet.  Out  of  the  cor- 
ner of  his  eyes,  fixed  though  they  were  on  Daniels, 
he  saw  that  she  had  paused  and  stood  motionless. 

"Advance  another  step  and  you  are  a  dead  man !" 
Hartley  called  out,  firmly.  "I  mean  it — before  God 
I  do!" 

And  then  it  was  that  the  half-blinded  moonshiner 
for  the  first  time  noticed  the  revolver  in  Hartley's 
hand,  and  he  checked  himself  and  stood  swaying 
heavily  to  and  fro,  his  bleared  eyes  wide  and  blood- 
shot. 

"You've  got  the  best  of  it  so  far,"  he  growled, 
"but  I'll  have  your  blood,  you  damned  nigger- 
lover,  if — " 

130 


NOBODY'S 

Suddenly  Hartley  raised  the  revolver  and  fired, 
but  it  was  not  before  Celeste,  who  had  crept  nearer, 
had  bounded  forward  and  struck  the  weapon  up- 
ward. Silent,  in  sheer  terror  now,  Daniels,  with 
his  eyes  on  the  revolver,  slowly  backed  toward  the 
bushes.  The  next  instant  he  had  disappeared  from 
sight.  Facing  each  other,  Celeste  and  her  rescuer 
stood  wordless  and  still  and  heard  the  man's  sullen 
strides  as  he  moved  away  through  the  near-by  wood. 

"You — you  kept  me  from  killing  him,"  Hartley 
stammered,  an  awful  look  of  uncurbed  fury  in  his 
eyes.     "Why,  why  did  you?" 

For  a  moment  she  seemed  unable  to  speak,  then 
she  took  the  revolver  from  him  and  stood  holding  it 
against  her  breast. 

"You  didn't  want  me  to?"  he  asked,  gently. 

She  shook  her  head.  He  saw  a  shudder  run  over 
her. 

"No,  no,"  he  heard  her  say  in  a  whisper.  "You 
are — are  angry  now,  and  are  not  thinking  of  the 
consequences.  If  you  had  killed  him  you  would 
have  had  trouble." 

"I'd  have  been  justified,  fully  so,"  he  said. 

Again  she  shook  her  head.  "Not  here  in  the 
mountains."  Her  voice  was  a  little  louder  now. 
"A  jury  made  up  of  such  as  he  would  not  justify 
you.  They  would  be  prejudiced.  They  wouldn't 
think  you  had  a  right  to  interfere,  for  I  am — what 
I  am  and  gentlemen  don't  take  up  for  such  as — " 

"For  God's  sake  don't — "  he  broke  in,  but  she 
10  131 


NOBODY'S 

had  put  her  hand  on  his  arm  and  was  staring  up 
into  his  face  steadily,  the  darkness  of  her  soul  creep- 
ing into  the  shadows  of  her  eyes. 

"I  know  them  better  than  you,"  she  said,  with 
a  wise  little  swing  of  her  head  downward.  "I've 
studied  the  subject.  That  book  explains  it  all. 
You  have  no  more  right  to  defend  me  than  to — to 
release  a  mad  dog  among  helpless  children.  To 
defend  me  as  you  would  a  white  girl  would  mean 
that — that  you  thought  other  gentlemen  ought  to 
do  the  same,  and  you'd  set  an  example  that  would 
be  fatal  to  the  laws  of  decency,  as  that  book  would 
put  it." 

"Absurd,  ridiculous,"  Hartley  cried,  but  she  ran 
on  now  as  calmly  as  if  the  recent  danger  were  sub- 
merged in  the  contemplation  of  a  horror  more  vital 
to  her. 

"No,  no,  you  have  no  right  to — to  defend  me  even 
against  such  as  he"  she  insisted,  satirically,  "for 
he  was  only  trying  to  kiss  me — to  hold  me  in  his 
arms,  and  he  was  a  white  man  and  was  honoring 
me  by  the  attention.  If  slavery  were  not  over,  and 
I  belonged  to  you,  and  he  had  tried  to  injure  me  as 
a  part  and  parcel  of  your  goods  and  chattels,  you 
would  have  recourse  to  civil  action,  but  to  defend 
me  as  you  would  that  man's  sister  or  mother,  why 
— well,  if  you  had  killed  him  you  would  be  tried 
for  the  crime,  and  would  have  to  answer  for  it. 
Your  dear  sister,  who  has  been  so  good  and  kind  to 
me,  would  repent  the  day  she  first  saw  me  and  took 

132 


NOBODY'S 

pity  on  me.  No,  no,  I'm  glad  he  got  away,  and  I 
hope  you  will  never  meet  him  again.  Never — 
never!" 

Hartley  took  one  of  her  hands.  He  almost  crushed 
it  in  his  grasp.  Seeing  the  revolver  in  the  tense 
fingers  of  the  other  hand,  he  took  it  and  put  it  into 
his  pocket.  The  words  he  thought  of  speaking  ran 
through  his  brain,  and  yet  they  failed  of  utterance. 

"I  don't  believe  you  are  of  any  other  race  than 
mine,"  he  all  but  heard  himself  saying.  "Mam' 
Ansie  is  not  your  mother.  You  are  the  very  flower 
of  the  best  blood  of  the  South.  I  shall  prove  it  to 
the  satisfaction  of  the  world.  I  shall  prove  it,  if 
I  spend  my  life  in  doing  it.  You  can  get  happiness 
in  no  other  way,  and  you  shall  have  it." 

"Have  you  never  thought,"  he  actually  said, 
"that  there  may  be  some  mystery  over  your  birth  ?" 

"Oh  yes,"  she  sighed,  somewhat  coldly  drawing 
her  hand  from  his,  and  lifting  her  pretty  shoulders 
with  a  little  jerk;  "but  thinking  of  that  doesn't  do 
any  good.  I  have  so  many  dreams  that  I  hardly 
know  which  is  fancy  and  which  reality.  I  suppose 
dreams  are  given  to  the  unfortunate  to  make  exist- 
ence bearable.  I  read  a  story  once  of  a  man  im- 
prisoned for  life  in  a  great  stone  prison.  And  there 
his  dreams  became  so  real  that  when  he  was  re- 
leased and  got  out  into  the  active  world  the  noise 
and  bustle  of  real  life  drove  his  dreams  away  and  he 
became  miserable,  when  he  had  been  full  of  spiritual 
happiness." 

i33 


NOBODY'S 

She  had  turned  homeward  now.  He  was  wonder- 
ing if  he  might  dare  to  hint  at  the  hopes  he  had  in 
regard  to  solving  the  mystery  of  her  life. 

"I  have  my  dreams,  too,  now,"  he  said.  "I 
never  was  given  to  dreaming  before,  but  since  I 
came  here  and  met  you,  and  saw  your  suffering, 
I  find  myself  dreaming  that  the  day  will  come  when 
every  shadow  will  be  lifted  from  you.  I  have  no 
absolute  proof — in  fact,  nothing  but  hope  that  it 
may  all  end  happily  for  you." 

''Dear  heart!"  he  heard  her  say  under  her  breath, 
and  he  thought  she  was  unconscious  of  the  exclama- 
tion, certainly  unaware  that  he  had  heard  it.  She 
was  silent  for  a  moment,  then  she  sighed. 

"You  mustn't  think  that,"  she  said,  aloud.  "It 
is  useless  to  hope  for  actual  things  simply  because 
of  our  human  desire  to  grasp  them  in  our  real  hands. 
I  think  I  know  what  you  mean — I  am  sure  I  do. 
You  would  have  it  so- — because  you  are  so  kind  of 
heart  and  noble.  You  would  do  me  a  good  turn, 
for,  somehow,  you — you  are  not  like  the  rest — for 
some  reason  you  don't  look  at  me  in  the  way  your 
uncle  and  aunt  do,  as — as  a  person  so  very  far  be- 
neath you  as  to  contaminate  you  by  mere  casual 
contact.  No,  no,  a  dream  like  that  would  be  fatal, 
and  I  beg  you  not  to — to  hold  it  before  my  eyes.  It 
would  be  too  sweet  to  last,  and,  if  I  once  hoped  it, 
it  would  drive  me  to  madness  to  ever  let  it  go.  No, 
I  must  do  my  duty  to  my  mother.  There  are  rea- 
sons why  she  has  not  told  me  all  that  she  might 

i34 


NOBODY'S 

about  myself,  but  she  will,  perhaps,  some  day.  I 
sometimes  think  I  ought  not  to  inquire — ought  not 
to  urge  her.  She  may  be  keeping  back  the  truth 
to — to  spare  me  fresh  pain." 

They  had  come  to  the  point  where  their  path 
crossed  the  brook.  There  was  no  foot-log  or 
bridge,  and  pedestrians  used  the  brown  stepping- 
stones  which  rested  on  the  sandy  bottom  and  pro- 
truded from  the  crystal  water.  He  went  in  ad- 
vance of  her,  and,  with  his  back  to  the  opposite 
shore,  he  held  out  his  hand,  but  instead  of  taking 
it  she  sadly  shook  her  head,  smiled  significantly, 
and  he  saw  a  stream  of  rose-red  color  steal  up  her 
neck  and  spread  over  her  exquisite  features.  Cha- 
grined to  awkwardness,  he  crossed  over  and  stood 
waiting  for  her.  She  followed  him  and  raised  a  pair 
of  appealing  eyes  to  his. 

"I  didn't  mean  to  be  rude,"  she  said,  softly;  "but 
I  couldn't  help  it.  I  had  a  sudden  feeling  that  I 
ought  not  to — to  take  your  hand." 

"Perhaps  I  ought  not  to  have — offered  it,"  he 
said,  an  odd  sensation  like  a  premonition  of  disaster 
on  him,  a  disaster  too  vague  for  analysis. 

"Whether  you  should  or  not,"  she  said,  with  what 
to  him  was  amazing  candor,  "is  only  for  God  to 
decide.  At  present  we  can  only  be  guided  by  sur- 
roundings and  results.  I  have  never  had  my  eyes 
opened  quite  so  wide  as  to-day,  with  all  that  I  have 
been  through." 

"You  mean — ?"  As  a  human  riddle  she  was 
i35 


NOBODY'S 

growing  more  complex.  She  made  no  answer  for  a 
moment,  and  he  almost  felt  that  she  would  rather 
he  would  leave  her.  His  doubt  as  to  this  seemed  to 
materialize  and  lie  on  him  in  weighty  folds  that 
clogged  his  utterance  and  impeded  his  movement. 
Hardly  knowing  what  she  might  expect  of  him,  he 
was  turning  away  when  she  glanced  at  him.  There 
was  a  moisture  like  thin-spread  tears  in  her  eyes. 
He  saw  the  corners  of  her  pretty  mouth  draw  down 
like  that  of  an  offended  child. 

"I  see  you  don't  understand,' '  she  faltered.  ''I 
was  not  thinking  of  myself.  You'd  not  dream  that 
I  was  if  you  could  look  deep  down  into  my — "  The 
word  defied  her  powers  of  distinct  utterance,  and 
she  finished  by  a  faint  little  tap  on  her  left  side, 
and  stood  gazing  at  him  helplessly. 

"I'm  afraid  you  are  too  profound  for  me,"  he 
heard  himself  saying.     "I  really  don't  understand." 

"You  will  if  you  will  only  reflect,"  she  sighed. 
"The  trouble  is  that  you  are  too  noble  to  think  in 
more  than  one  way.  Do  you  remember  what  made 
you  so  angry  back  there  that  you  forgot  yourself 
and  tried  to  shoot  that  man?  He  called  you  a — a 
'nigger -lover.'  That  was  the  greatest  insult  he 
could  think  of,  and  you,  being  a  Southern  white 
gentleman,  would  have  resented  it  by  taking  his 
life." 

"Surely  you  don't  think  so  ill  of  me  as  that?" 
he  stammered. 

"Oh,  I  don't  mean  that  you  associated  me  with 
136 


NOBODY'S 

it  exactly,"  she  corrected.  "It  was  a  sort  of — of 
subconscious  resentment.  You  knew  he  was  trying 
to  insult  you,  and  those  words — " 

"I  knew  he  was  insulting  youl"  Hartley  blurted 
out. 

"Oh!"  Her  great,  childlike  eyes  expanded.  The 
dawning  light  behind  them  seemed  to  ignite  her 
golden  lashes  and  burn  in  her  face. 

"Now,  do  you  understand?"  He  was  bending 
over  her,  his  face  and  eyes  aflame  with  passion,  his 
voice  breaking  and  sinking  into  huskiness. 

"Oh,  oh!  was  that  it,  really?  How  sweet,  how 
fine,  how  good  of  you!  But  there  is  no  avoiding 
Jeff  Daniels's  meaning,  and  for  your  sake,  and  that 
of  your  sister,  I  must  not  let  you  do  or  say  things 
that  would  give  such  persons  cause  to  criticize.  I 
know  the  kind  of  man  he  is.  He'll  never  let  up  on 
you.  He'll  pursue  you  like  a  snake  in  the  grass, 
and  he  will  have  his  revenge.  And  just  think  of  it, 
here  I  am  talking  with  you  about  all  this  and  never 
once  thanking  you  for  what  you  did.  I'd  rather 
die  a  thousand  times  than  have  that  man  put  his 
coarse,  vile  mouth  to  mine  and  hold  me  in  his  arms, 
and  you  prevented  it.  I  would  say  what  I  feel,  but 
all  my  obligations  are  so  deep  that  I  simply  can't 
specify  any  one  in  particular." 

"I  had  to  do  what  I  did — I  don't  deserve  a  bit  of 
credit,"  Hartley  declared.  "Think  of  what  I  owe 
you — you  saved  my  life,  at  great  risk  to  your  own. 
I  can  feel  you  now  drawing  my  very  heart — my 

i37 


NOBODY'S 

very  blood  from  my  veins,  with  no  thought  of  dan- 
ger to  yourself.  I  don't  care  what  you  are,  who 
you  are.     To  me  you — just  you — are  more — " 

"Stop!"  she  suddenly  commanded.  "I  don't 
want  to  appear  ungrateful.  I  can't  explain  what  I 
mean.  I  don't  think  I  ever  shall  be  able  to  do  so. 
You  will  have  to  guess.  But  I  have  reasons,  deep, 
deep  down  in  my  nature,  for  not  wanting  you  or — 
or  any  one  of  your  race  to — to  think  of  me  as — as 
men  are  supposed  to  think  of  women.  Perhaps 
you'll  see  clearly  if — if  I  simply  remind  you  that" — 
she  touched  her  chest  with  the  quivering  tips  of  her 
dainty  fingers,  as  if  to  emphasize  the  pronoun — 
' '  that  /,  with  all  the  woes  that  go  with  me,  am  the 
piteous  product  of — of  one  poor  woman's  weakness. 
It  is  for  me,  you  see,  who  have  had  the  opportunity 
to  read  good  books  and  imbibe  the  thought  of  great 
minds,  to  prove  that  I  am — well,  am  what  God  has 
made  me — a  pure  woman  that  even  despair  like 
mine  cannot  taint." 

"0h,  God,  that  you  should  think  I  could  ever 
look  upon  you  in  the  way  you  suggest!"  he  cried, 
in  actual  anguish.     "Celeste — " 

"I  don't — I  actually  don't,"  she  broke  in,  quickly. 
"I  think  you  are  stronger  than  the  men  of  your 
race,  as  I  am  stronger  than — than  the  women  of 
mine.  We  are  in  no  danger — you  and  I ;  I  am  not, 
because  it  would  mean  death  to  me,  and  you  are 
not  because  you  will  not  allow  yourself  to  become 
too  deeply  interested  in  a  girl  whose  bare  friendship 

138 


NOBODY'S 

would  wreck  your  social  life.  Now,  please  let  me  walk 
home — alone.     It  is  best — I  assure  you  it  is  best." 

"As  you  wish,"  he  complied,  without  protest, 
and  he  stood  at  the  side  of  the  road  like  a  pillar  of 
stone  and  watched  her  as  she  moved  away. 

"My  God!"  he  cried;  "she  is  right.  Attentions 
of  mine,  no  matter  how  pure,  would  injure  her  even 
more  than  those  of  the  scoundrel  I  struck  down.  I 
know  what  she  is,  but  the  world  doesn't.  There  is 
only  one  way,  and  it  is  to  do  the  other  thing.  I 
must  establish  her  rights.  She  shall  not  bear  that 
awful  taint  to  the  end  of  life.  Hell  itself  could  not 
be  so  cruel.  I  must  prove — I  must  prove — "  He 
stood  still,  his  eyes  on  the  fathomless  sky,  and 
groaned.  After  all,  what  could  he  prove?  Grant- 
ing the  truth  of  his  suspicions,  what  earthly  power 
could  unlock  the  superstitious  lips  of  the  only  valid 
witness  to  the  facts?  Even  a  bare  hint  of  his  in- 
tentions might  blast  his  hopes  forever.  Celeste  her- 
self must  be  kept  in  the  dark. 

He  turned  into  the  path  which  led  up  the  side 
of  the  nearest  mountain,  telling  himself  that  he 
must  breathe  freer  air,  throw  himself  into  greater 
solitude  to  reflect  ever  the  problem  which  meant  more 
than  life  to  him.  A  few  minutes  later,  from  the  high- 
er ground,  he  caught  sight  of  Celeste.  She  was  near 
the  negro  quarter,  and  was  walking  quite  slowly. 
Even  at  that  distance  he  could  see  the  despondent 
droop  that  hung  upon  her  frail  body  like  a  garment. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

JEFF  DANIELS  nursed  his  bruises  and  his  fury 
in  secret.  In  a  secluded  spot  among  the  hills 
back  of  his  mother's  cabin  he  bathed  his  face  in  a 
spring  and  tried  to  remove  the  traces  of  his  en- 
counter with  Hartley.  He  remained  away  from 
home  till  the  darkness  had  fallen,  and  in  the  dim 
torch-light  in  the  cabin  chimney  the  vinegary  old 
crone  failed  to  remark  anything  unusual  in  his 
appearance. 

Two  days  later  he  turned  up  at  Pete  Dunn's  store 
at  the  cross-roads.  There  was  a  group  of  moun- 
taineers on  the  little  porch  in  front  of  the  store, 
and  he  nodded  carelessly  to  them  as  he  went  up 
the  steps  and  slouched  back  to  the  rear,  where  Pete, 
a  coatless,  long-mustached  man  of  lank  proportions, 
was  figuring  up  his  accounts  at  a  desk  fashioned 
from  a  dry-goods  box  turned  on  its  side. 

"Hello,  Pete!"  was  the  offhand  greeting. 

"Hello!"  And  the  storekeeper  went  on  with  his 
figuring. 

"Say,  Pete,"  and  Jeff  threw  a  leg  over  a  corner  of 
the  box  and  rested  in  a  half-seated  posture  as  he 
bent  over  the  ledger,  "what  do  you  want  for  that 
six-shooter  in  the  front  show-case?" 

140 


NOBODY'S 

"Five  dollars  of  any  chap's  money,"  the  store- 
keeper answered.  "It's  a  good  un.  It's  the  one 
that  Alf  Bo  wen  shot  that  nigger  with.  After  Alf 
was  cleared,  his  wife  didn't  like  the  looks  of  it 
around  the  house  and  fetched  it  here  and  traded  it 
for  bacon  and  meal.  I  tried  it  at  a  mark  in  the 
road  t'other  day  and  hit  it  nine  times  out  of  ten, 
and  I  ain't  such  a  shot  as  I  might  be." 

"Make  it  four  and  a  half  and  I'm  yore  man,  Pete." 

"It's  a  go,  bein'  as  you're  a  friend  and  a  member 
of  the  gang.  I'll  put  it  on  your  ticket  if  you  hain't 
got  the  change." 

"All  right,  slap  it  down.  I'll  go  git  it.  Charge 
me  to  a  box  o'  cartridges." 

"All  right.  What  are  you  going  to  do  with  yore 
other  gun?" 

"Leave  it  with  the  old  woman;  she's  afeard  to  be 
alone  without  protection.  Niggers  is  getting  power- 
ful bold  over  there  since  that  fool  Kentucky  woman 
moved  in.  She  has  learnt  'em  to  put  on  a  lot  o' 
airs,  and  now  that  damned  dude  brother  o'  hers  is 
goin'  her  one  better." 

"I  reckon  I  know;  I  guess  I've  heard."  The  face 
of  the  storekeeper  took  on  a  scowl;  he  struck  the 
top  of  his  desk  so  heavily  that  his  inkstand  danced 
and  a  pen  rolled  to  the  floor.  He  swore  loudly  as  he 
bent  to  pick  up  the  pen.  "I  tell  you,  Jeff,  we  ain't 
a-going  to  stand  for  it.  This  is  a  white  man's 
country,  and  it  will  stay  so  or  we'll  know  the  reason 
why.     Folks  like  them  can't  run  rough-shod  over 

141 


NOBODY'S 

us  an'  rub  it  in,  just  because  they've  got  a  little 
money." 

Hearing  Dunn's  raised  voice,  three  or  four  of  the 
loafers  about  the  door  arose  and  slouched  back  to 
the  desk. 

"What's  up  now?"  old  Gid  Trawick  wanted  to 
know,  as  he  leaned  against  the  platform  scales  and 
spat  out  his  tobacco  quid. 

"A  plenty  is  up."  Dunn  looked  at  the  curious 
faces  clustered  about  him.  "Jeff's  just  tellin'  about 
that  damned  white-livered  nigger-lover  over  his 
way.  He's  from  New  York,  and  us  mountain  men 
are  not  fit  to  wipe  his  feet  on.  His  sister,  you-all 
know,  has  been  eatin'  at  the  same  table  with  old 
Ansie's  gal,  and  considerin'  her  a  sight  better  than 
my  women  folks  or  yourn.  I've  kept  you  fellers 
from  insultin'  her,  because  she  is  a  woman,  but  Jeff 
says  her  dude  of  a  brother  is  wuss  'n  she  ever  dared 
to  be." 

The  composite  stare  of  the  entire  group  was  on 
Jeff  Daniels's  design-filled  face. 

"You'd  think  so  if  you  lived  as  close  to  'em  as  I 
do,"  he  said,  crisply.  "It's  come  to  a  hell  of  a  pass, 
gentlemen,  but  the  dang  fool  is  actually  courtin' 
Ansie's  gal.  I  don't  mean  running  after  her  like 
some  white  man  did  after  her  mammy,  but  actually 
bowin'  and  scrapin'.  She  sets  around  with  his 
sister  in  the  parlor,  eats  with  the  family,  and  folks 
say  Hartley  is  going  to  marry  her  and  take  her 
back  North  to  live  like  a  lady." 

142 


NOBODY'S 

At  this  Gabe  Long,  one  of  the  younger  men, 
whipped  off  his  slouch  hat  and  lashed  his  thigh 
with  it.  "Jeff's  dead  right.  I  met 'em  on  the  road 
t'other  day  an'  a  blind  man  could  see  what's  in  the 
wind  betwixt  'em.  She  sucked  the  pisen  out  o'  his 
snake-bite,  an'  that  started  it.  But  it's  agin  the 
law  here  in  this  State  for  white  and  black  to  marry, 
and  we  oughtn't  to  let  him  run  rough-shod  over 
decent  custom." 

"The  trouble  has  just  begun."  Jeff  Daniels's 
subtle  plan  was  written  clearly  on  his  low-browed 
face.  "We  are  goin'  to  have  a  nigger  uprisin'. 
The  yaller  coons  are  a-watchin'  Hartley  galivantin' 
about  with  that  gal  an'  chucklin'  to  beat  the  Dutch. 
They  say  he  has  come  to  start  new  ways  here  in  the 
mountains,  and  that  white  women  will  be  glad  to 
marry  good-lookin'  coons.  You  know  what  the 
niggers  call  all  of  us.  'White  trash,'  that's  the  word, 
and  they  say  Ansie's  gal  has  got  the  Lowndes  blood 
in  her,  and  on  that  account  is  head  and  shoulders 
above  our  low,  dirt-eatin'  sort." 

Jeff  Daniels  was  molding  his  men  as  if  they  were 
dough  in  his  hands.  Unbridled  fury  swept  over 
them.  They  stood  speechless,  with  ashen  faces  and 
clenched  hands.  Jeff  took  advantage  of  the  lull  in 
their  talk,  and  strode  to  the  show-case  and  returned 
loading  his  revolver  from  a  box  of  cartridges. 

"It's  hell,"  he  said,  seeing  that  they  expected 
some  utterance  from  him.  "She's  good-looking — 
I'll  admit  that,  and  her  mammy  has  educated  her 

i43 


NOBODY'S 

high  above  what  any  one  o'  you  can  do  for  a  daugh- 
ter or  sister,  but,  I  say,  the  damn  fool  oughtn't  to 
be  allowed  to  marry  her.  A  step  like  that  will  make 
the  niggers  about  here  so  rank  that  we'll  have  to 
kill  'em  in  solid  droves." 

"How  many  men  have  we  got  left  in  the  old 
order?"  Gid  Trawick  asked,  his  voice  shaking  with 
suppressed  fury. 

"Forty-two,"  Jeff  Daniels  answered,  with  an 
eagerness  he  tried  to  hide.  "I  was  countin'  'em 
t'other  day.  We  had  fifty  the  night  we  raided 
Niggertown  in  Lowndesville.  Boys,  by -the -way, 
while  we're  on  the  subject,  the  editor  of  the  Gazette 
told  me  over  there  t'other  day  that  since  we  did 
that  job  not  a  black  dive  in  the  town  has  reopened. 
The  coons  have  quit  standin'  round  the  streets 
lookin'  at  white  ladies,  and  makin'  fun  o'  mountain 
folks.  By  gum,  who'd  have  thought  that  nigger 
and  white  equality  would  start  right  here  in  our 
midst?  But  you  never  can  tell  what's  going  to  hap- 
pen. To  do  the  old  feller  justice,  I  don't  think 
Colonel  Gorman  is  of  the  same  stripe  as  Hartley  and 
his  sister.  They've  lived  with  the  Yankees,  and  he 
hain't.  If — if  anything  is  done,  you  know,  I  reckon 
it  would  be  better  to  leave  him  out." 

"Yes,  he  fit  on  the  right  side,"  Dunn  said,  de- 
cisively, "and  he  can't  help  hisself.  Hartley  an' 
his  sister  give  'im  and  his  wife  their  livin',  and  the 
old  chap  is  old.  He  comes  in  here  sometimes,  and 
buys  tobacco  and  sets  and  talks.     He  don't  say 

144 


NOBODY'S 

overly  much,  but  he's  worried  about  the  way  them 
young  fools  are  goin'  on." 

''Yes,  we'll  leave  'im  out,"  agreed  Gabe  Long,  his 
beadlike  eyes  flashing  under  his  scraggy  brows,  "and 
we'll  not  scare  the  life  out  of  his  niece.  We'll  have 
to  git  Hartley  out  by  some  pretext  or  other,  and  then 
we'll  find  out  exactly  what  his  line  is.  What  we  do 
will  depend  on  how  he  talks." 

"We  already  know  what  he's  up  to."  Jeff  Daniels 
did  not  like  this  suggestion  of  temporizing.  "I'm 
no  fool.  I've  seen  enough  with  my  own  eyes  to 
know  what  he  is  drivin'  at.  He's  havin'  fun  with 
you-all." 

"Well,  now,  you  keep  yore  mouth  shet,  Jeff,"  old 
Trawick  said,  rather  sharply.  "You  are  the  only 
man  that  went  off  half-cocked  in  the  Lowndesville 
raid,  and  shot  that  nigger  in  the  leg  when  he  was  the 
most  peaceful  one  in  the  bunch.  You've  got  to  stay 
sober  if  this  thing  comes  to  a  head.  If  you  don't 
we'll  expel  you,  as  sure  as  fate.  We've  got  to  run 
this  thing  just  right  or  I'll  quit.  We've  got  our 
rights,  and  we  are  goin'  to  have  'em,  but  we  won't 
take  more  than  our  rights.  You  kin  mark  that 
down  in  yore  little  book.  I'm  in  for  a  out-and-out 
investigation,  and  Hartley  has  got  to  have  a  chance 
to  make  a  statement." 

"Huh!"  sniffed  Daniels,  "he'll  git  his  chance  to  lie 
out  of  it,  I  reckon,  and  you  'white-trash'  chaps,  as 
he  calls  you,  will  be  left  in  the  lurch.  He  will  pull  the 
wool  over  yore  peepers,  and  tell  his  yaller  gal  about 

145 


NOBODY'S 

it  the  next  morning  an'  laugh  at  you  fer  a  bunch  o' 
galoots.  Shucks !  he's  from  New  York,  he  is,  an'  you 
got  moss  on  yore  backs  a  foot  long." 

"Never  you  mind,  Jeff" — Trawick,  in  spite  of  him- 
self, was  angered  by  the  words  and  sneer — "I'll  at- 
tend to  it.  Boys,  you  know  what  to  do.  Pass  the 
word  along  and  tell  'em  all  to  wait  fer  final  in- 
structions." 


CHAPTER  XIV 

A  FEW  days  after  this  Hartley  decided  that  he 
would  make  the  long-delayed  hunting  trip  into 
the  mountains  which  he  had  planned  before  coming 
South.  So  one  morning,  after  a  breakfast  by  candle- 
light in  the  dining-room,  he  strode  forth,  his  gun  on 
his  arm,  his  game-bag  thrown  over  his  shoulder.  He 
heartily  enjoyed  the  first  few  hours  of  his  jaunt,  going 
farther  and  farther  eastward  through  the  primeval 
forest.  The  romantic  thought  came  to  him  that  it 
would  be  a  pleasant  thing  actually  to  lose  his  bear- 
ings amid  the  maze  of  towering  cliffs  and  dank 
canons  which  were  never  touched  by  the  direct  rays 
of  the  sun,  where  succulent  moss  lay  like  drifts  of 
green  snow,  and  ferns  in  endless  variety  grew  like 
breathing,  weeping  things,  and  reptiles  coiled,  hissed, 
and  glided  out  of  his  way  as  he  walked  along.  But 
he  was  in  no  mood  for  sport,  and,  in  consequence 
of  this  indifference,  little  game  was  sighted.  He 
brought  down  a  few  squirrels,  a  wild  duck,  and  lamed 
a  bald  eagle  of  great  size,  but  which  with  sagging 
left  wing  escaped  to  the  rocky  heights  which,  grim 
and  defiant  of  human  access,  blazed  in  the  sunlight 
to  the  west. 

There  was  so  much  to  reflect  on  that  seemed  of 
11  147 


NOBODY'S 

greater  import  than  the  mere  gratification  of  skilled 
marksmanship.  He  now  had  scarcely  a  waking 
moment  that  was  not  occupied  with  the  ill-fortune 
of  the  helpless  and  forlorn  Celeste.  Her  appealing 
personality  had  fastened  itself  upon  him  as  nothing 
had  ever  done  before.  He  had  espoused  her  cause 
in  deadly  earnest,  and  his  every  breath  was  an  un- 
spoken prayer  to  aid  him  in  her  deliverance  from  the 
toils  about  her.  He  did  not  know  how  it  would  come, 
but  something  kept  whispering  to  him  that  he  was 
right  in  the  conviction  that  she  was  what  his  crying 
soul  would  have  her  be — of  his  own  race,  untainted 
by  an  inferior  one. 

As  he  stumbled  along  over  the  untrodden  ground, 
the  wild  vines,  briers,  and  thorny  bushes  clutching 
at  his  loose  hunting-suit,  he  summoned  her  up  to  his 
fancy  as  he  had  last  seen  her  the  day  she  had,  with 
such  pained  reserve,  declined  his  aid  in  crossing  the 
brook.  How  wonderfully  beautiful  she  seemed! 
How  graceful  and  lithe!  How  gentle,  sensitive,  and 
womanly,  and  her  eyes — above  all,  her  eyes!  the 
heavy  lashes  of  which  seemed  steeped  in  the  liquid 
shadows  of  her  troubled  soul.  How  they  followed 
him  in  their  wistful  appeal!  With  an  ache  of  sym- 
pathy in  his  breast  he  renewed  his  vows  to  fathom 
the  mystery  and  finally  save  her. 

"I'll  do  it,  Celeste."  He  fancied  he  was  speaking 
to  her,  and  his  heart  throbbed  as  the  musical  name 
dropped  from  his  tongue.  "You  were  made  for  joy, 
not  for  sorrow  and  shrinking  shame — for  the  rever- 

148 


NOBODY'S 

ence  and  homage  of  men,  not  the  insults  of  such 
brutes  as  Jeff  Daniels.' ' 

At  noon  he  made  a  fire  in  true  pioneer  fashion  and 
prepared  and  roasted  a  gray  squirrel,  and  as  he  sat 
and  ate  it  he  tried  to  enjoy  it  as  a  sportsman  should, 
and  as  he  had  done  in  his  youth,  but  somehow  the 
taste  for  such  things  had  left  him.  With  a  pleasur- 
able laugh  over  his  sheer  captivity,  he  tried  to  banish 
the  girl  from  his  mind,  but  this  meeting  with  her,  or 
that  remark  of  hers,  that  gesture  of  the  hand,  stole 
upon  him  as  from  the  sylvan  scene  about  him.  He 
sang;  he  whistled;  and  as  he  smoked  his  after- 
dinner  pipe  he  caught  himself  thinking  of  Celeste  as 
the  daughter  of  the  beautiful  Dorothy  Lowndes  and 
Martin  Rawson,  of  the  haughty  Carolina  Rawsons — 
of  Celeste  as  the  granddaughter  by  blood  and  hered- 
ity of  General  Lowndes.  He  saw  her  in  the  drawing- 
rooms  of  New  York  as  his — but  there  the  vision  fled, 
for  he  dared  not  trust  his  fancy  further.  To  think  of 
her  as  wholly  his  would  be  the  act  of  a  madman. 
And  yet,  and  yet  the  contingency  shimmered  before 
him,  a  persistent,  elfish  will-o'-the-wisp.  Yes,  she 
should  be  his  bride  upon  whom  he  would  lavish  every 
gift  within  his  reach,  and  devote  his  life  to  making 
her  forget  the  past.  His  bride — Celeste  his  bride! 
The  lump  in  his  throat  seemed  to  swell  and  burst  and 
percolate  in  streams  of  ecstasy  through  his  whole 
being.  Yes,  he  told  himself,  she  must  be  his;  it  was 
too  late  to  think  of  it  being  otherwise.  He  could  not 
banish  the  hope.     It  was  too  sweet,  too  much  a  part 

149 


NOBODY'S 

of  himself.  Men  had  hoped  against  fearful  odds 
before,  and  why  should  not  he  ?  The  hope,  bold  as  it 
was,  might  prove  an  inspiration  that  would  draw  him 
on  to  victory. 

After  resting  awhile  he  rose  and  trudged  onward. 
Within  the  next  three  hours  he  walked  many  miles 
and  had  not  come  upon  the  slightest  hint  of  civiliza- 
tion, no  sign  of  woodsman's  axe  or  trace  of  human 
footsteps  had  met  his  eye.  He  had  reached  a  point 
where  a  steep  incline  stretched  across  his  way,  and 
he  was  attempting  to  ascend  its  rocky  surface  when 
the  barrel  of  his  gun,  swinging  between  his  legs  from 
its  leather  strap,  tripped  him  and  he  fell  several  feet. 
Then  he  felt  a  sharp  twinge  in  his  ankle,  and,  examin- 
ing it,  and  testing  his  weight  upon  it,  he  found  that 
he  had  slightly  sprained  the  member.  Managing, 
now  with  difficulty,  to  ascend  the  steep,  he  limped 
along  on  what  seemed  a  rather  extensive  plateau  till 
he  came  to  a  narrow  roadway.  He  was  now  satis- 
fied that  it  would  be  folly  to  pursue  his  wanderings, 
and,  as  night  was  fast  coming  on,  he  decided  to  seek 
a  place  of  shelter  for  the  night  and  return  home  the 
next  morning. 

At  this  juncture  he  saw  a  boy  about  twelve  years 
of  age  coming  toward  him  driving  a  cow,  with  a  rope 
round  her  neck,  and,  when  he  was  close,  Hartley  ad- 
dressed him : 

"Can  you  tell  me,  my  boy,  if  there  is  any  one 
about  here  who  would  take  a  stranger  in  for  the 
night  ?" 

150 


NOBODY'S 

The  youth  pulled  the  impatient  cow  to  a  stand- 
still, and  eyed  him  with  a  queer  stare  of  curiosity 
as  he  slowly  nodded  in  the  direction  from  which  he 
had  come. 

''Tim  Ludgate's  hotel  is  down  this  road  about  a 
quarter,"  he  answered. 

"Good,  that's  what  I'm  looking  for,"  Hartley 
said,  in  no  little  relief.  "I've  hurt  my  ankle  and 
have  to  cut  my  hunt  short." 

The  slow  eyes  of  the  boy  traveled  up  and  down 
the  stranger's  form  with  a  startled  look  of  interest 
in  their  depths. 

"Air  you — mought  yore  name  be  Hartley?" 

"You've  got  it,"  the  young  man  said,  with  a 
laugh  of  surprise.  "I  didn't  know  anybody  would 
know  me  as  far  from  home  as  this.  By- the- way, 
how  far  is  it  to  Fairview?" 

;"Bout  ten  mild" — the  boy's  curious  eyes  still 
clung  to  Hartley — "on  a  bee-line,  but  twelve  by 
the  nighest  road.  You  left  home  'bout  daybreak 
or  a  little  before,  didn't  you?" 

"How  did  you  know  that  ?"  Hartley  inquired,  now 
amused  by  the  boy's  manner  and  unexpected  ques- 
tions. 

"I  heard  Jeff  Daniels  tell  pa,"  was  the  boy's  reply. 
"He  come  by  our  barn  'bout  twelve  o'clock.  He  rid 
on  to  Joe  Gregory's  house.  Hoss  was  all  kivered 
with  sweat  an'  foamin'." 

"Oh  yes,  Jeff  knows  me,"  Hartley  said.  "I 
understand  now.     You  say  the  hotel  is  right  ahead  ? 

151 


NOBODY'S 

Well,  I'll  walk  on.  I  want  to  bathe  and  rest  this 
foot." 

Looking  back  when  he  had  got  about  a  hundred 
yards  down  the  road,  Hartley  saw  the  lad  tugging 
at  the  rope.  The  cow  was  fairly  pulling  him  along, 
and  yet  his  head  was  turned. 

' '  Poor  little  chap !' '  the  New-Yorker  mused.  ' '  He 
is  a  lone  little  creature  here  in  this  out-of-the-way 
spot.  I  may  be  the  first  stranger  ever  he  laid  his 
eyes  on.  He  looked  at  me  as  if  I  were  Santa  Claus. 
That's  odd  about  Jeff  Daniels — odd,  indeed." 

Presently  turning  a  bend  of  the  road,  he  came 
upon  the  hotel.  It  was  an  antiquated  farm-house  of 
five  or  six  rooms,  a  long  portico,  and  a  lean-to  shed 
in  the  rear,  which  was  used  as  a  dining-room.  To 
increase  the  capacity  of  the  house  a  row  of  log 
cabins  had  been  added  to  the  number  of  six  or 
more.  They  faced  the  road,  and  the  doors  of  all 
were  open.  At  the  little,  sagging  gate  in  front  of 
the  main  building  stood  Tim  Ludgate,  the  pro- 
prietor, a  bearded  mountaineer  of  middle  age,  in  a 
blue-and-white  checked  hickory  shirt,  the  sleeves  of 
which  were  rolled  up  above  his  elbows,  and  unbut- 
toned in  front.  He  opened  the  gate  as  Hartley 
limped  toward  him,  spat  out  his  tobacco,  and 
smiled  genially. 

"Hurt  yorese'f,  I  see,"  he  said.  "Well,  it  don't 
look  so  mighty  bad,  or  you  couldn't  walk  on  it  like 
that." 

"I'm  sure  it  will  be  all  right  in  the  morning," 
152 


NOBODY'S 

Hartley  said,  "I'm  ten  miles  from  home,  and  don't 
care  to  tramp  back.  I'd  like  to  put  up  here  if  you've 
got  a  bed  for  me." 

"Plenty,  plenty;  that's  what  me  'n  the  old  'oman 
is  here  for.     Come  right  in." 

He  led  the  way  into  a  dingy  little  parlor,  which, 
owing  to  the  absence  of  sunlight  at  that  hour,  was 
growing  dark.  Hartley  had  swung  his  gun  round 
and  was  leaning  it  in  a  corner  when  the  landlord 
seemed  to  notice  it  for  the  first  time.  The  young 
man  felt  his  eyes  as  they  bore  down  on  him  in  the 
half-darkness. 

"Drummer?"  the  host  asked. 

"Oh  no,"  Hartley  replied,  with  a  smile. 

"Revenue  man?  Of  course,  you  may  not  want 
to  tell  me  if  you  are,  bein'  as  that's  sorter  private 
work;  but  sometimes  they  do  give  me  a  hint.  You 
know  these  mountain  chaps  make  it  hot  for  a  feller 
that  informs  agin  'em." 

"I  can  set  your  mind  at  rest  on  that  point,"  the 
huntsman  laughed.  "My  name  is  Hartley;  I'm 
visiting  my  sister  at  Fairview,  and  came  out  for  a 
hunt  this — " 

"You  don't  say!"  the  landlord  broke  in.  "Huh, 
I  see — I  see!"  His  face  fell;  he  stood  silent  for  a 
moment,  and  then  he  said,  abruptly:  "Well,  I'll  fix 
you  up.  You  kin  take  the  room  right  across  the 
hall.  I'll  go  tell  the  old  'oman,  and  she'll  cook  a 
dab  o'  something  for  you.  I  reckon  you  are  hon- 
gry?" 

153 


NOBODY'S 

"I  am  decidedly,  but  don't  bother  to  prepare 
anything  special  for  me.     I'm  not  at  all  particular." 

Leaving  the  guest  in  the  big,  bare-looking  cham- 
ber, a  window  of  which  opened  on  the  portico,  Lud- 
gate  went  back  to  the  dining-room.  Here  a  slat- 
ternly woman  with  a  dingy,  wrinkled  face,  chewing 
a  snuff -brush  made  from  a  twig,  was  busy  at  a  long 
dining-table  covered  with  white  oil-cloth.  Her  hus- 
band softly  closed  the  door  behind  him  and  touched 
her  on  the  shoulder.  She  was  putting  a  pewter 
castor  in  the  center  of  the  table  and  dusting  the 
cruets  with  a  rag,  and  looked  up  in  surprise. 

"What  air  you  shettin'  that  do'  for?"  she  snarled, 
irritably.  "With  that  cook-stove  in  thar  it's  hot 
enough  to  bake  a — " 

"Sh!"  he  hissed,  warningly.  "What  you  reckon, 
Matt?  That  damned  feller  Hartley  is  in  the  front 
bedroom.     Walked  right  in  to  put  up  for  the  night." 

With  her  hands  on  her  gaunt  hips  the  woman 
faced  her  husband ;  her  jaw  dropped  and  hung  loosely. 

"Good  Lord!"  she  ejaculated.  Then  she  fired, 
her  eyes  flashed  and  her  thin  lips  curled.  "Well, 
he  don't  expect  me  to  feed  'im,  does  he?  If  he  does 
he  can  expect  till  he  draps  in  his  tracks.  He  won't 
chaw  grub  o'  my  cookin',  or  sleep  twixt  my  sheets." 

"Sh!  don't  talk  so  loud!"  her  husband  said, 
pacifically.  "He'll  hear  you.  He's  hurt  his  foot 
and  don't  want  to  walk  furder.  You  know  this 
ain't  yore  fight  nor  mine.  We  air  runnin'  a  hotel, 
Matt,  an  we — " 

i54 


NOBODY'S 

"We  don't  take  in  niggers!"  The  woman's  voice 
rose  high  and  cracked.  "An'  we  don't  take  in 
white  -  skinned  men  from  up  in  Yankeedom  that 
wants  to  marry  'em,  nuther.  War's  over,  but  a 
feller  that  comes  here  amongst  black  imps  of  hell 
like  we  got  and  puts  sech  ideas  in  the'r  skulls  is  trying 
to  ruin  the  country.  Mrs.  Trawick  told  me  all  about 
'im.  Yore  darter  an'  mine  never  knowed  much 
more  'n  'er  a  b  c's,  an'  never  had  a  finer  frock  'n  a 
half -cotton  alpaca,  as  much  as  she  loved  sech  things. 
The  pore  gal  lived  and  died  an  old  maid  and  never 
got  nothin',  while  this  darter  of  a  mulatto  strumpet 
is  dressed  as  fine  as  a  fiddle,  and  sets  in  a  parlor, 
and  never  lays  'er  hands  to  work.  You  kin  do  as 
you  like,  but  that  man  Hartley  will  never  set  at  no 
table  o'  mine."  And  picking  up  her  tin  dish-pan 
the  woman  flounced  out  of  the  room. 


CHAPTER  XV 

AN  hour  passed.  Night  fell  quickly  in  the 
iV  mountains,  and  it  was  now  dark.  Hartley  had 
taken  off  his  boot  and  bathed  his  foot,  and  felt  con- 
siderably relieved.  Standing  up,  he  saw  that  he 
could  bear  his  weight  on  the  ankle  without  very 
great  pain.  He  had  put  his  boot  on  and  lighted  his 
pipe  when  he  thought  he  heard  sounds  outside  like 
the  tramping  of  many  feet.  Then  he  was  sure  that 
he  heard  low  voices  near  the  front. 

Going  to  the  window  which  opened  on  the  portico, 
he  raised  the  sash  and  propped  it  up  by  means  of  a 
stick  left  there  for  the  purpose.  The  voices  were 
louder  now,  and  he  could  see,  in  the  dim  starlight, 
down  the  road  a  little  way,  a  considerable  gathering 
of  men  and  horses.  Wondering  what  it  could  mean 
and  why  supper  had  not  been  announced,  he  was 
on  the  point  of  going  out  when  his  door  was  opened 
and  the  landlord  entered  the  lamplight.  There  was 
a  sheepish  look  on  his  face,  and  he  fumbled  the  door- 
latch,  which  he  still  held,  quite  nervously. 

"Stranger/'  he  began,  awkwardly,  "I'm  a  peace- 
able man.  I  try  to  do  my  duty  and  mind  my  own 
business.  I  ain't  in  fer  rows  one  way  nor  another, 
but  I  ain't  a-goin'  to  do  you  any  good  by  keepin'  my 

156 


NOBODY'S 

mouth  shet  over  plain  facts.  My  old  'oman's  heard 
tales  agin  you  and  a  certain  colored  woman's  gal  in 
the  valley,  and  she's  put  'er  foot  down.  She  says  she 
ain't  a-goin'  to  feed  you  narry  a  bite." 

"Oh,  I  see!"  Hartley  felt  his  anger  rise.  "Well, 
I  shall  not  ask  her  to  do  it.  I  don't  want  to  force 
myself  or  my  money  on  any  one.  I  have  no  apolo- 
gies or  explanations  to  make  to  any  one.  What  I've 
done  is  my  own  affair." 

"I  don't  know  about  that."  It  was  Ludgate's 
turn  to  flare.  There  was  a  decided  touch  of  sar- 
casm in  his  tone  as  he  added:  "It  may  be  yore  busi- 
ness, stranger,  and  you  talk  powerful  independent, 
but  ef  I  hain't  awfully  mistaken  you'll  have  more 
folks  to  help  you  run  yore  business  in  a  few  minutes 
than  you  ever  dreamt  o*  needin'!  I  don't  know 
whether  you've  made  yore  peace  with  yore  Maker 
or  not,  but  my  advice  to  you  is  to  set  about  it.  I'm 
disobeyin'  orders  in  tellin'  it,  but  this  shack  is  liter'- 
ly  surrounded  by  desperate  men  three  deep,  and 
they  are  after  plain  talk  from  you  and  plenty  of  it. 
Men  have  kept  you  in  sight  ever  since  daylight  this 
mornin'.  And  I'm  here  to  tell  you  as  a  well-wisher 
that  ef  you've  got  any  tale  to  concoct  you'd  better 
be  at  it.  Yore  case  might  go  down  before  a  jury 
in  the  United  States  Court,  but  a  Western  minin' 
camp  tryin'  a  hoss-thief  ain't  in  it  with  the  mob 
you  got  to  face." 

The  information  came  as  a  shock  to  Hartley.  He 
was  not  really  thinking  of  himself.     As  in  a  flash 

i57 


NOBODY'S 

of  revelation  he  saw  the  effect  of  the  disaster  on 
Celeste.  Of  all  humiliations  she  had  faced  he  felt 
that  the  report  of  this  would  be  the  worst.  Then  his 
indignation  began  to  burn.  He  turned  toward  the 
door,  but  the  landlord  checked  him. 

"Don't  go  out  thar!"  he  warned  him.  "You 
needn't  go  fur  yore  gun.  They  got  that.  They 
made  me  hand  it  over  to  'em  when  the  fust  batch 
come.  They'd  'a'  burnt  the  roof  from  over  my  head 
ef  I'd  'a'  said  a  word  agin  'em.  They  are  a  terrible 
lot.  Jim  Ashton,  whose  darter  was  killed  by  one  of 
the  blue-gum  buck-niggers  on  yore  sister's  land,  is 
thar,  and  so  is  Tobe  Tompkins,  whose  young  wife  was 
driv*  crazy  by  a  black  convict  from  the  coal-mines. 
He  kept  'er  in  the  mountains  two  days,  and  when 
they  found  'er  she  was  stark-starin'  mad.  I  tell  you, 
man,  ef  you've  got  one  grain  o'  common  sense  you'll 
talk  purty  about  this  thing.  You'll  talk  a  lots,  too, 
an'  be  in  a  hurry  about  it." 

Hartley  was  about  to  make  an  angry  retort  when 
a  subdued  voice  called  the  landlord's  name  from  the 
outside. 

"Hello,  Ludgate!" 

"All  right,  all  right!"  Ludgate  answered,  then  to 
Hartley  he  whispered:  "They  been  waitin'  fer  old 
Gid  Trawick.  I  reckon  he's  come.  He's  a  sort  o' 
judge  among  'em,  bein'  old  an'  experienced.  You 
are  in  a  ticklish  place,  stranger,  but  it  ain't  any  o' 
my  doin'." 

Hartley  at  once  saw  the  utter  folly  of  resistance, 

158 


NOBODY'S 

and  with  remarkable  coolness  he  stood  at  the  window, 
held  the  cloth  curtain  aside  and  saw  a  mob  thirty 
strong  file  in  at  the  gate  and  stand  along  the  edge 
of  the  portico,  a  motley,  irregular  row  in  their  slouch 
hats  and  rough  clothing.  There  were  many  rifles  in 
evidence  and  numerous  revolvers. 

"All  right,  I'm  ready  if  you  are,"  old  Trawick  said, 
in  a  firm,  loud  voice.  "Say,  boys,  keep  Jeff  Daniels 
quiet.  This  ain't  his  picnic  in  particular,  an'  he's 
usin'  his  lip  too  free.  Ef  he  don't  obey  orders  and 
regulations  we'll  have  to  kick  'im  out.  He's  full, 
anyway." 

"We'll  watch  'im,  Cap !"  a  voice  returned.  "We'll 
keep  'im  quiet!" 

"All  right,  boys,"  Trawick  was  heard  to  order. 
"Go  in  and  fetch  the  feller  out,  an'  we'll  march  'im 
down  to  the  school-house." 

At  this  juncture  the  door  of  the  room  was  wrenched 
open  and  four  stalwart  men  entered.  One  of  them 
carried  a  small  cotton  rope,  and  he  called  out, 
roughly : 

"Hold  out  yore  hands,  stranger!  We  are  goin' 
to  give  you  a  fair  trial,  but  we  ain't  a-goin'  to  resk 
no  monkey-tricks  from  you." 

Hartley  refused  to  obey.  "What  am  I  arrested 
for?"  he  asked,  with  such  astonishing  calmness  that 
the  men  paused  and  stared  at  him  blankly. 

"We'll  explain  all  that  at  the  school-house," 
Trawick,  who  towered  above  the  others,  answered. 
r'You  are  a  cool  one,  I  must  say.     But  you  know 

iS9 


NOBODY'S 

well  enough  what  we  want.  You  can't  come  that 
on  us;  Ludgate  told  you.  Tie  'im,  boys,  and  fetch 
'im  on!" 

Seeing  that  resistance  would  be  the  height  of  folly, 
Hartley  extended  his  hands,  and  one  of  the  men  tied 
his  wrists  firmly  together,  so  firmly,  indeed,  that  the 
coarse  rope  cut  sharply  into  the  flesh.  This  done, 
the  mob  now  on  the  portico  and  crowded  into  the 
little  hall  surged  out  of  the  house  and  yard.  Scarce- 
ly limping  at  all  now,  Hartley  was  drawn  firmly 
along.  A  hundred  yards  down  the  road  a  light 
shone  through  an  open  door,  and  the  prisoner  sur- 
mised that  he  was  being  taken  thither.  In  the  si- 
lent throng  bringing  up  the  rear  a  surly  individual 
voice  rose  now  and  then.  It  uttered  low  threats, 
many  oaths,  and  grunts  of  fury.  Its  maker  lunged 
back  and  forth  between  two  men,  halting  now  and 
then  and  being  dragged  onward  by  his  fellows. 
Hartley  recognized  the  man  as  Jeff  Daniels,  and  well 
knew  that  he  was  at  the  bottom  of  the  whole  affair. 

The  little  white  school  -  house  was  reached. 
Through  the  open  door  Hartley  saw  some  candles 
burning  on  a  crude,  unpainted  table  at  the  far  end. 
His  captors  held  back  at  the  steps  till  Trawick  had 
entered.  Then  they  followed,  the  old  man  stalking 
erectly  up  the  central  aisle  to  the  table,  where  he 
took  a  seat.  Rapping  on  the  floor  with  the  butt  of 
his  long  revolver,  he  called  out : 

"Give  'im  a  seat  thar  on  the  front  bench,  an' 
untie  his  hands.     I'll  have  the  drop  on  'im  from 

1 60 


NOBODY'S 

here,  an'  ef  he  moves  a  muscle  I'll  settle  his  hash. 
Be  easy  with  him  an'  treat  'im  decent.  He  hain't 
had  his  hearin',  an'  no  man  is  guilty  till  he's  con- 
victed— even  with  as  much  agin  'im  as  thar's  been 
reported  in  this  case." 

The  chairman  was  obeyed.  Between  two  men, 
his  hands  now  free,  Hartley  was  drawn  down  to  a 
seat.  The  throng  as  a  whole  gathered  close  behind 
him  save  for  a  few  who  stood  in  the  shadows  on 
either  side  of  Trawick's  table.  Turning  his  head, 
Hartley  saw  for  the  first  time  in  any  sort  of  light 
the  whole  assembly.  And  as  each  rugged  and  grim- 
ly determined  visage  fell  under  his  eye  the  real 
gravity  of  the  situation  fastened  itself  on  him.  He 
knew  the  natures  and  understood  the  wrongs  of 
such  men,  and,  in  a  way,  he  had  long  sympathized 
with  them. 

The  rising  of  the  stalwart  chairman  broke  into 
his  reflections. 

" Gentlemen,  we  are  here  to-night" — old  Tra- 
wick's voice  held  not  the  slightest  quaver  of  em- 
barrassment nor  doubt  as  to  the  ethics  of  the 
proceedings — "  we  are  here  to  decide,  as  just  an' 
honorable  men,  what  is  best  to  do  in  the  present 
matter.  The  thing  is  founded  on  a  charge  the  like 
o'  which  hain't  never,  to  my  knowledge,  ever  riz  in 
any  decent  settlement  in  the  entire  South.  Some  of 
you,  my  friends,  has  been  in  gangs  before  now  that 
has  gone  and  acted  without  due  reflection  and  with 
scant  evidence  at  yore  disposal.     Mistakes  has  been 

161 


NOBODY'S 

made  that  has  caused  our  section  to  suffer  by  re- 
port goin'  out  agin'  it.  We  hain't  a-goin'  to  have 
no  mistakes  made  here  to-night.  And  I'm  goin'  to 
state  that  ef  any  man — I'm  talkin'  to  you,  Jeff 
Daniels,  and  a  few  like  you — if  any  man  here  does 
violence  to  this  prisoner  before  our  action  as  a 
body  is  decided  by  vote,  that  man  or  men  will  go 
down  by  my  ball  as  shore  as  God  gives  me  power 
to  pull  trigger." 

Trawick  paused.  Nods  of  approval  met  his 
glance,  which  slowly  swept  over  the  shadow-filled 
faces,  and  grunts  of  assent  were  heard.  Then  he 
raised  his  broad,  splaying  hand  as  if  to  signify  that 
he  was  about  to  continue  and  demanded  absolute 
silence. 

"We  have  already  agreed  on  what  course  we  are 
goin'  to  pursue,"  he  said,  his  eyes  bent  on  Hartley. 
"It  only  remains  for  us  to  set  the  matter  fair  and 
square  before  the  offender  and  hear  his  side  of  the 
matter,  if — by  God — if  a  man  kin  have  a  side  that 
is  wuth  listenm'  to  on  top  of  what  we  all  know  to 
be  facts." 

This  was  greeted  by  a  swelling  roar  of  anger  and 
approval.  The  benches  resounded  with  the  rap- 
ping of  revolvers.  The  floor  thundered  from  the 
pounding  of  feet.  Oaths  loud  and  long  rang  out. 
Hartley  looked  around  again.  There  was  nothing 
but  fierce  condemnation  in  the  set  features  about  him. 

"This  man  " — the  chairman  raised  his  hand  again 
and  secured  silence  after  a  moment — "come  boldly 

162 


NOBODY'S 

in  our  midst  and  begun  a  violation  of  custom  among 
us  that  was  nothin'  more  nor  less  than  a  slap  in  the 
face  of  public  decency.  He  come  from  that  part 
of  the  country  that  devastated  our  fair  land  forty 
year  ago.  Now,  we  was  beat  in  that  fight,  and  ad- 
mit it,  and  all  in  God's  world  we  ax  of  him  an'  his 
sort  is  to  be  let  alone  here  in  our  backwoods.  Know- 
in'  the  nigger  better 'n  any  folks  on  earth  does,  we 
have  certainly  drawed  the  line  at  whites  and  blacks 
bein'  on  a  social  level.  But  this  high  an'  mighty  man 
comes  from  up  in  New  York,  whar  he  got  his  idees, 
ef  not  his  birth,  and  openly  acts  in  sech  a  way  as  to 
show  us  that  he  considers  a  black  woman's  darter, 
beca'se  she  wears  clothes  bought  with  stolen  money, 
and  has  been  educated  a  little,  as  a  fit  companion 
fer  his  own  sister  and  hisse'f .  You  men  need  not  be 
told  that  it  is  sech  hellish  conduct  as  this  that  makes 
black  nigger  bucks  stand  round  street  corners  and 
look  at  white  women,  and  talk  about  marry  in'  'em. 
You  know  it  is  sech  as  that  that  causes  our  own 
women  to  be  met,  dragged  to  the  woods,  an'  out- 
raged. Gentlemen,  this  man  don't  look  like  a  man 
that  will  avoid  a  direct  issue.  He  looks  to  me  like 
a  damned  fool  that  has  decided  to  brazen  his  con- 
duct out  on  some  notion  of  principle  or  other,  till 
we  are  actually  forced  to  put  the  noose  round  his 
neck.  Now,  we've  had  all  the  evidence  we  want 
from  our  side,  all  we  lack  to  make  a  smooth  job  is 
his  statement.  He's  entitled  to  that.  Stranger, 
have  you  got  anything  to  say?" 
12  163 


NOBODY'S 

Profound  silence  filled  the  room.  Old  Trawick 
sat  down,  and,  resting  his  chin  on  his  closed  hand, 
he  eyed  Hartley  through  the  flickering  candlelight. 

Hartley  was  slow  of  utterance.  Presently,  how- 
ever, to  the  surprise  of  many,  he  answered: 

"There  is  nothing  that  I  can  think  of  that  would 
cause  you  to  think  differently,  and  I  don't  intend 
to  argue  with  you.  I'd  as  soon  argue  with  a  mad 
dog  while  spraying  him  with  water." 

"I  reckon  you  are  tryin'  to  shift,  young  man," 
Trawick  said.  "What  we  want  to  git  at  is  to  hear 
you  say,  one  way  or  another,  whether  your  atten- 
tions to  that  gal  is  the  same  as  you  think  a  white 
man  ought  to  pay  a  white  woman  or  not.  Is  she, 
or  is  she  not,  in  yore  estimation,  yore  equal,  and,  ef 
you  wanted  a  wife,  would  she  suit  you?" 

There  was  another  silence.  Then  to  the  growing 
surprise  of  the  mob,  Hartley  calmly  and  deliberately 
stood  up.     He  rested  his  hands  on  his  hips. 

"I  thought  I  had  nothing  to  say,"  he  began,  "but 
I  have.  I  want  it  distinctly  understood,  however, 
that  I  am  not  trying  to  appease  you,  for  I  know 
your  character  well  enough  to  know  that  nothing 
will  do  that — nothing  except  blood,  and  as  much  of 
it  as  you  can  get.  I  have  made  up  my  mind  that 
I  am  helpless  in  a  gang  of  cowards,  for  you  are  cow- 
ards not  tp  give  me  a  chance  to  fight  one  or  all  of 
you  on  a  level.  I  see  I  am  done  for,  but  I  want  to 
say  one  thing,  and  I  would  not  say  it  if  I  did  not 
feel  that  I  owe  it  to  a  helpless  woman.     My  sister 

164 


NOBODY'S 

has  long  respected  the  unfortunate  girl  in  question, 
and  when  I  came  and  knew  her  I  did  the  same.  She 
saved  my  life,  and  I  would  be  lower  than  a  dog  to 
treat  her  with  lack  of  respect,  even  here  under  your 
threats.  I  don't  intend  to  go  into  details  over  the 
matter.  But  as  I  may  never  see  the  light  of  an- 
other day,  there  is  a  thing  which,  I  feel,  it  is  my 
duty  to  say  in  her  behalf.  It  is  this :  I  am  absolute- 
ly convinced  that  the  girl  whom  you  have  so  often 
insulted  has  not  a  drop  of  negro  blood  in  her  veins. 
You  may  as  well  know  the  truth.  I  firmly  believe 
there  is  a  mystery  over  her  birth.  I  believe  she 
has  been  wronged  ever  since  she  was  born.  The 
woman  who  passes  as  her  mother,  in  my  opinion,  is 
not  her  mother.  It  is  because  of  this  that  I  have 
interested  myself  in  her.  And  while  my  sister  does 
not  know  as  much  as  I  do  about  the  case,  it  was  the 
inside  conviction  of  the  truth  that  made  her  heart 
go  out  to  the  girl." 

"Great  God,  you  don't  believe  the  gal  is  puore 
white,  do  you?"  old  Trawick  gasped,  a  queer, 
thwarted  expression  capturing  his  wrinkled  face,  as 
he  leaned  on  the  table  and  put  his  revolver  down. 

"I  do,  and  I  was  aiding  her  just  as  any  decent  man 
among  you  would  have  done  under  the  same  cir- 
cumstances. Her  fate  is  one  that  ought  to  make  the 
blood  of  every  man  boil.  She  is  a  gentle  white  girl 
consigned  to  life  as  a  person  of  mixed  blood.  Here 
among  men  who  think  they  are  standing  up  for  the 
white  race  she  has  been  publicly  insulted  and  shocked 

165 


NOBODY'S 

almost  to  insanity.  The  charges  against  me  here 
to-night  were  made  by  a  scoundrel  simply  because  I 
knocked  him  down  when  he  had  attacked  the  lady 
in  a  lonely  spot.  I  knocked  him  down  just  as  I 
would  have  knocked  him  down  if  he  had  tried  the 
same  thing  on  one  of  your  sisters  or  daughters.  You 
can  do  as  you  please  with  me.  I  know  my  words 
are  only  infuriating  you,  but  I  don't  care.  The  only 
regret  I  have  is  that  you  will  kill  me  and  there  will 
be  no  one  left  to  prove  what  I  intended  to  prove 
about  the  girl  and  thus  free  her  from  the  trouble 
she's  in.  You  consider  yourselves  great  defenders 
of  the  womanhood  of  the  South,  and  yet  to-night 
you  are  by  your  own  volition  depriving  a  white  lady 
of  her  only  chance  of  liberty  from  a  fate  a  million 
times  worse  than  death." 

Amid  a  rising  buzz  of  astonished  voices,  followed 
by  a  hush  as  profound  as  that  of  a  tomb,  Hartley  sat 
down.  Eyes  turned  upon  eyes  throughout  the  room. 
Brawny,  uncouth,  hatless  men  stared  with  hanging 
jaws,  their  breasts  as  motionless  as  stone.  Old  Tra- 
wick  struggled  to  his  feet,  rested  his  long,  hairy 
hands  on  the  table  and  leaned  forward,  his  face  a 
distorted  mask  in  the  shifting  shadows  of  the  breeze- 
blown,  smoking,  and  guttering  candles. 

"Men,  men,  listen  to  me!"  he  gulped.  "You  may 
believe  me  or  not,  but  I'm  of  the  opinion  that  this 
school-house  is  a  stable  full  of  jackasses,  and  I've 
been  the  loudest  brayer  in  the  bunch.  I  know  a 
man  when  I  look  at  one  good,  and  this  feller,  in  my 

166 


NOBODY'S 

opinion,  is  white  as  snow  to  the  bone.  He  hain't 
done  nothin'  but  what  we  would  pray  God  to  have 
done  for  us  if  some  pore  orphan  kin  of  our'n  was  left 
like  he  thinks  that  gal  is.  I  have  heard  hints  at  the 
same  thing  myself,  now  and  then,  but  this  man  is  on 
the  inside,  and  his  opinions  ought  to  count  an'  be  re- 
spected in  as  grave  a  matter  as  this  is.  Boys,  that 
hell-cat  Jeff  Daniels  is  at  the  bottom  of  this!  We 
was  about  to  act  on  all  he's  told  us  while  he  was  just 
smartin'  under  a  thrashin'  he  fully  deserved.  Is  he 
back  thar  ?     By  God,  ef  he  is,  fetch  'im  to  the  front." 

"Here  he  is!"  an  eager  voice  called  out,  but  just 
then  a  thundering  of  feet  sounded  on  the  floor.  A 
bench  was  turned  over  and  Daniels  ran  out  at  the 
door  and  disappeared  in  the  night. 

"Let  'im  go,"  was  Trawick's  decision,  uttered  in 
a  voice  which  still  shook  with  shamed  emotion.  ' '  Ef 
he  gives  more  trouble  we  kin  attend  to  him.  He's  a 
dirty  coward,  and  it  is  my  opinion  that  we've  seed 
the  last  of  him.  Well,  well,"  the  old  man  con- 
tinued, his  reluctant  glance  falling  on  Hartley, 
"I  hardly  know  what  to  say  to  you,  sir.  I  feel  like 
I've  been  holdin'  a  court-martial  over  a  general  that 
had  saved  an  army  while  the  rest  of  us  was  asleep. 
In  other  words,  I  feel  like  a  damn  fool,  and  the  only 
comfort  I  can  git  is  to  say  so  here  in  public  before  my 
peers.  What  you  are  a-doin'  is  what  we  ought  to 
have  done  long  'fore  you  come  and  tuck  it  up.  As 
you  say,  a  fate  like  that  gal's  is  worse  than  death.  I 
hope  God  will  prosper  you  in  all  you  do." 

167 


NOBODY'S 

The  house  was  now  in  a  bustle.  Most  of  the  men 
preferred,  in  sheer  shame,  it  seemed,  not  to  meet 
Hartley  face  to  face,  and  they  made  haste  to  leave 
the  room.  A  few,  however,  came  forward  with 
twitching  faces  and  held  out  their  hands.  Hartley 
greeted  all  with  calmness  and  no  visible  resentment. 
Among  them  was  Tim  Ludgate.  Laying  his  rough 
hand  on  Hartley's  arm,  he  said: 

"Come  on  back  with  me;  you  hain't  had  no  sup- 
per, and  my  wife  will  be  glad  to  set  out  the  best  she 
has  in  the  pantry  for  a  man  like  you." 

"Well,  I  really  don't  feel  like  going  to  Fairview 
to-night."  Hartley  thanked  him.  "My  ankle  is 
giving  me  some  pain." 

Another  man  who  had  a  word  of  regret  to  ex- 
press was  Pete  Dunn,  the  storekeeper. 

"The  boys  sorter  pulled  me  into  this,"  he  faltered. 
"Jeff  had  stirred  up  a  lot  o'  ill-feeling,  and  we  was  all 
too  mad  to  reflect.  Ef  you  are  a-goin'  to  stay  here 
to-night,  maybe  I  ought  to  send  word  over  to  yore 
sister  when  I  git  home  that  the  trouble  is  all  over. 
Reports  fly  like  wild-fire,  and  no  doubt  she  has  got 
wind  of  the  risin'  by  this  time  and  naturally  will  be 
upset." 

"I'd  be  glad  if  you  would,"  Hartley  said,  mag- 
nanimously, and  he  followed  Ludgate  out  of  the 
building  and  down  to  the  hotel. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

THE  next  morning,  after  a  comfortable  night's 
rest,  and  his  ankle  considerably  better,  Hartley 
set  out  for  home  in  a  buggy  loaned  by  the  landlord 
and  driven  by  a  neighbor's  son.  He  was  within  a 
few  miles  of  Fairview  when  he  met  Miss  Hartley 
coming  for  him  in  her  own  buggy  drawn  by  her 
favorite  horse.  She  was  overjoyed  at  the  sight  of 
him,  but  restrained  any  exhibition  of  her  emotion 
until  he  had  taken  a  seat  beside  her  and  the  other 
vehicle  had  been  sent  back.  Then  he  found  that 
she  was  keeping  silence  only  through  an  effort  to 
restrain  her  emotion.  He  tried  to  treat  the  whole 
thing  lightly,  but  could  not  succeed  in  having  her 
view  it  so. 

"It  is  awful,  awful!"  she  whimpered,  her  white 
face  resting  on  his  arm  for  an  instant  as  she  applied 
her  handkerchief  to  her  trembling  lips.  "They 
were  hunting  you  down  like  a  wild  beast — like  a 
negro  who  had  committed  an  awful  crime.  I  heard 
their  signal  -  horns,  and  knew  something  unusual 
was  up.  I  thought  it  was  a  lynching  of  some  negro, 
and  when  I  learned  that  it  was  my  own  dear  brother 
they  were  after — "  Her  voice  broke.  She  shook 
with  violent  sobs.     He  put  his  arm  about  her  and 

169 


NOBODY'S 

tried  to  calm  her  by  telling  her  of  the  new  friends  he 
had  made  and  their  genuine  regret  for  what  had 
happened,  but  she  still  wept. 

"I'll  never  get  over  it,"  she  declared.  "I'll  see 
you  in  the  hands  of  that  mob  the  rest  of  my  life. 
Poor,  dear  Gordon !  And  I  was  the  cause  of  your 
coming  here." 

He  drove  slowly.  The  day  was  warm  and  the  sun 
beat  down  from  a  cloudless  sky.  He  paused  at  a 
spring  a  little  way  from  the  main  road,  and  got  out 
and  dampened  his  handkerchief  and  brought  it  to 
her  and  bathed  her  swollen  eyes  with  the  gentleness 
and  forethought  of  a  woman. 

"You  mustn't  have  red  eyes  when  you  get  home," 
he  said,  playfully.  "Don't  you  remember  how  we 
used  to  say  that  when  we  were  children  ?  That  was 
the  way  you  taught  me  that  tears  were  unmanly." 

She  half  smiled  with  wry  lips  and  kissed  his  hand 
and  clung  to  it,  holding  it  to  her  breast  as  if  to  re- 
assure herself  that  he  was  safe,  after  all. 

"Do  you  know  how  I  first  learned  of  the  trouble ?" 
she  inquired,  calmer  now.  ' '  It  was  after  the  sound 
of  the  cries  and  horns  had  died  out,  as  the  mob  got 
farther  and  farther  away.     Celeste — " 

"Oh,  she  knew,  then  ?"  he  said  with  a  start,  and  he 
bent  his  eyes  upon  her. 

"Yes,  at  least  she  must  have  suspected  that  you 
were  concerned,  for  she  came  over  to  the  house.  She 
had  never  come  at  night  before,  and  it  was  so  unusual 
in  her  that  I  thought  she  was  afraid  it  was  to  be  an 

170 


NOBODY'S 

attack  on  some  negro  in  the  quarter  and  had  come 
to  avoid  it.  I  was  on  the  veranda.  Both  uncle  and 
aunt  were  spending  the  night  at  Lowndesville,  and  I 
was  glad  to  have  her  company.  But  I  could  not 
make  her  out.  She  was  as  white  as  death,  and 
looked  as  if  she  could  hardly  stand.  I  led  her  into 
the  library  and  made  a  light,  but  she  acted  queerly. 
I  saw  that  she  was  trying  her  best  to  be  calm,  but 
now  and  then  she  would  utter  a  sigh,  and  once  she 
buried  her  face  in  my  lap.  Then  I  began  to  question 
her  as  to  what  she  feared.  At  first  she  would  not 
talk  at  all.  She  got  up  and  walked  about  the  room, 
wringing  her  hands  and  groaning.  She  was  at  one 
of  the  windows  behind  the  lace  curtain,  looking 
toward  the  mountains  and  straining  her  ears  for 
sounds  of  the  man -hunters.  She  didn't  know  I  was 
so  close  to  her,  or  was  oblivious  of  my  existence,  for 
I  heard  her  gnash  her  teeth  and  say : 

"'If  they  harm  him,  I'll  kill  myself.  I  can  bear 
no  more — not  a  bit  more!' 

"Wondering  what  she  could  possibly  mean,  I  drew 
her  back  to  the  sofa  and  gradually  induced  her  to 
talk.  She  felt,  it  seems,  as  well  as  I  could  gather, 
that  she  was  to  blame  for  the  whole  thing.  She  said 
that  Jeff  Daniels  had  spoken  roughly  to  her  one  day, 
and  that  happening  along  just  at  the  moment  you 
had  taken  her  part.  She  was  sure  that  that  and  my 
friendship  toward  her  was  at  the  bottom  of  the  whole 
matter.  Then,  clutching  my  hands  and  falling  at 
my  feet  and  begging  me  to  kill  her,  she  told  me  the 

171 


NOBODY'S 

thing  that  seemed  to  turn  me  to  stone.  She  said 
the  mob  was  after  you — you !  I  was  absolutely  un- 
done. I  couldn't  be  considerate  even  of  her.  I 
brushed  her  away,  leaving  her,  face  down,  on  the 
floor,  and  ran  out  into  the  yard  screaming  as  loudly 
as  I  could.  But  no  one  came.  I  rang  the  field-bell 
with  all  my  might,  but  the  negroes  stayed  close  in 
their  cabins,  and  the  whites  were  all — all  after  you. 
In  great  desperation  I  went  back  to  the  house. 
Celeste  was  standing  among  the  vines  on  the  ve- 
randa. Somehow,  even  in  my  great  trouble,  I  felt 
for  her,  and,  as  she  is  such  a  young  thing  and  so 
pitiful,  I  went  to  her  and  put  my  arm  about  her 
and  was  drawing  her  to  me  when  she  pulled  away 
and  cried  out: 

"'Let  me  loose!  I'm  a  nigger!  Your  brother 
would  have  been  safe  to-night  if  it  had  not  been  for 
me.  Don't  touch  me.  I'm  accursed.  God  is  laugh- 
ing at  you  for  pitying  me.  Your  brother  is  the 
grandest,  noblest  man  that  ever  lived,  and  he'll  die 
to-night  simply  on  my  account.' 

"I  don't  know  how  I  happened  to  be  so  oblivious 
of  your  peril;  perhaps  Heaven  itself,  or  the  living 
spirits  of  our  parents,  were  whispering  messages  of 
your  safety.  But  it's  a  fact  that  at  that  moment 
sympathy  for  that  poor  child  almost  dominated  me. 
I  caught  her  and  drew  her  to  me  by  force  and  held 
her  and  caressed  her  as  if  she  had  been  my  young 
sister,  for,  brother,  I  realized  then  more  strongly 
than  ever  before  that — "     Miss  Hartley  paused  and 

172 


NOBODY'S 

looked  steadily  into  her  brother's  eyes.  "I  see  I 
shall  have  to  tell  you  something.  I  don't  know  why 
I  feel  so,  for  I  have  no  actual  evidence,  but  I  believe 
Celeste  is  absolutely  white.  I  can't  feel  that  Mam' 
Ansie  is  her  mother!     There,  there!     I've  said  it!" 

"Dear,  dear  girl" — Hartley  drew  his  sister  close 
to  him  in  a  tender  clasp  of  the  arm — ' '  I  believe  that 
myself.  In  fact,  it  was  the  statement  of  that  belief 
to  those  men  last  night  that  caused  them  to  release 
me.  But  you  didn't  tell  Celeste  what  you  thought, 
did  you?" 

"No,  as  strongly  as  I  was  tempted  to  do  so,  I 
could  not  bring  myself  to  do  it.  You  see  that 
would  be  very  wrong  unless  we  were  absolutely  sure, 
for  it  is  a  thing  she  longs  for  so  very  much  that — " 

"No,  no,  we  must  not  raise  false  hopes."  Hart- 
ley's eyes  were  on  the  back  of  the  horse  which  was 
slowly  plodding  along  the  road.  "She  told  me  once 
that  she  was  sorry  her  mo —  sorry  Ansie  had  brought 
her  up  as  she  has,  and  given  her  tastes  and  advan- 
tages which  can  come  to  nothing.  But  it  is  a  queer 
psychological  thing  that  both  you  and  I  should  feel 
so  sure  of  her  freedom  from  racial  taint  when  we  have 
no  absolute  proof  that  she  is  other  than  she  is  said 
to  be." 

"I  really  have  a  little  actual  ground  for  my  be- 
lief," Miss  Hartley  informed  him,  as  she  steadily 
watched  the  look  of  surprise  creep  over  his  face. 

"You  say  you  have!"  he  cried,  eagerly.  "Why, 
when  I  came  here  you  said — " 

173 


NOBODY'S 

"I  know,  but  this  happened  just  the  other  day. 
You  had  gone  to  Lowndesville  to  see  Mr.  Elwood, 
and  Celeste  came  over.  I  suppose  she  thought  I'd 
be  lonely.  I  had  the  day  before  been  reading  about 
that  case  in  New  Orleans — the  case  of  the  boy  who 
had  been  left  when  an  infant  in  the  care  of  some 
negroes.     Did  you  see  it?" 

''No,  what  was  it?" 

"Well,  it  seems  that  certain  white  people  put  in 
the  claim  that  the  child,  who  is  now  grown,  was  ab- 
solutely free  from  the  taint  of  negro  blood — that  his 
mother  was  a  white  woman  who  had  deserted  her 
child  and  made  the  mistake  of  leaving  it  where  she 
did.  The  white  people  wanted  to  remove  the  stigma 
from  the  boy,  and  took  the  matter  into  the  courts. 
It  was  a  complicated  case,  but  certain  experts  on 
racial  characteristics  gave  evidence  that  resulted  in 
the  courts  declaring  a  verdict  that  he  was  indeed 
white.  That  has  nothing  to  do  with  us.  The  only 
thing,  however,  that  matters  is  that  these  experts 
gave  three  separate  and  distinct  tests  for  the  deter- 
mination of  the  presence  of  negro  blood.  They  were, 
first,  a  bluish  tint  to  the  white  part  of  the  eye; 
second,  dark  lines  under  the  finger-nails  about  the 
half  moons,  and,  third,  any  sort  of  kink  to  the  hair. 
I  felt  heartily  ashamed  of  myself  for  pretending  as  I 
did,  but  I  was  working  for  Celeste's  happiness,  and 
in  one  way  and  another,  without  exciting  her  sus- 
picions, I  succeeded  in  making  a  thorough  ex- 
amination." 

i74 


NOBODY'S 

"And  what  did  you  find?"  Hartley  wondered  if 
his  sister  would  note  the  suspense  in  his  voice,  or 
the  anxious  fire  he  knew  was  burning  in  his  eyes. 

"I  know  I  looked  carefully,"  Miss  Hartley  pref- 
aced her  answer,  as  from  design  to  make  her  words 
more  conclusive,  "and  not  one  of  the  marks  was 
visible." 

"Then  she  would  stand  the  test,"  Hartley  heard 
himself  saying,  as  much  to  himself  as  his  companion. 

"Before  the  same  judge,  jury,  and  experts,"  Miss 
Hartley  replied.  "And  yet  it  was  admitted  by  the 
experts  themselves  that  the  indications  were  not 
absolutely  infallible — that  there  might  be  a  case  in 
which  a  person  having  a  far-distant  colored  an- 
cestor might  not  show  any  of  the  characteristics. 
But  I've  seen  enough  to  make  me  satisfied  that  my 
intuition  is  right,  and  I'm  going  to  work  for  Celeste's 
release.  To  me  she  is  the  sweetest,  most  appealing 
creature  I  ever  met,  and  she  has  reached  a  point  at 
which  she  must  be  rescued,  or  she  will  suffer  all 
the  rest  of  her  life.  She  is  as  sensitive  as  a  flower, 
and  the  condition  she  is  now  in  is  absolutely  un- 
bearable. She  loves  me,  too,  with  her  whole  heart. 
She  certainly  proved  it  last  night.  She  stayed  with 
me  till  morning,  moaning,  weeping,  and  crying,  con- 
stantly accusing  herself  of  being  the  cause  of  my 
trouble.  We  were  in  the  sitting-room,  side  by  side, 
watching  the  hand  of  the  clock  and  hoping  day- 
light would  bring  better  news.  At  times  I  could 
hear  her  praying  and  calling  you  'Gordon,'  because 

i75 


NOBODY'S 

I  did,  and  pleading  with  God  to  spare  you,  because 
you  were  so  brave  and  noble  and  gentle.  She  was 
on  her  knees,  bent  almost  to  the  floor,  when  Mr. 
Dunn  rode  up  at  the  break  of  day.  I  saw  him  and 
went  out  and  received  your  glorious  message.  When 
I  went  back  to  Celeste  I  saw  that  she  did  not  sus- 
pect the  good  news,  and  when  I  told  her — when  I 
told  her,  she  stood  up  staring  at  me  with  her  great, 
pathetic  eyes,  as  if  unable  to  realize  the  truth.  Then 
a  light  I  never  saw  in  a  human  face  came  into  hers. 
Her  pretty  mouth  quivered ;  she  seemed  to  be  look- 
ing off  into  space,  and  then — then  she  fainted." 

"Oh!"  Hartley  turned  his  face  aside  and  looked 
down  at  the  slowly  revolving  wheel,  which  was 
grinding  harshly  in  the  hot  sand.  "Oh!"  he  said 
again,  but  that  was  all. 

Miss  Hartley  failed  to  note  his  agitation.  "You 
will  help  me  save  her,  won't  you,  brother?" 

He  turned  his  eyes  upon  her.  He  seemed  to  de- 
liberate; then  he  said:  "I  shall  leave  no  stone  un- 
turned. If  she  is  not  freed  I  shall  never  have  an- 
other contented  minute — /  should  not  care  to  live!" 

Their  eyes  met  and  clung  together.  "Oh,  brother !" 
Miss  Hartley  cried.  ' '  Now,  it  must  be  done.  I  know 
you — I  know  her.     Yes,  it  must  be  done  now." 


CHAPTER  XVII 

THE  waning  afternoon  light  fell  through  the 
dingy  small-paned  windows  of  George  Elwood's 
office.  It  was  Saturday,  the  busiest  day  of  the 
week,  and  many  laborers  were  passing  on  their 
homeward  way  from  work.  The  young  lawyer  had 
been  busy  paying  out  money  to  tenants  on  the 
various  tracts  of  farming  land  owned  by  General 
Lowndes,  and  collecting  rents  for  his  many  cottages 
and  houses  in  town.  He  and  Gordon  Hartley  sat 
smoking  in  the  back-room.  They  were  talking  of 
Celeste,  Hartley  with  an  unexpected  reserve  and 
constraint  that  fairly  nonplussed  his  friend. 

"Of  course,  I  can  see  how  you  would  feel  more 
than  grateful  to  the  girl  for  what  she  did  when  you 
were  snake  -  bitten,"  Elwood  said.  "Doctor  Lee 
told  me  all  about  it  the  day  afterward.  He  de- 
clared it  was  a  marvelous  bit  of  rescue  work.  It 
was  exceedingly  lucky  that  Celeste  happened  along 
when  she  did.  I  suppose  she  got  the  idea  from  the 
negroes.  They  know  a  lot  of  primitive  remedies 
which  may  have  come  down  from  their  tropical 
ancestors.  No  doubt  snake-bites  amounted  to  as 
little  to  the  native  Africans  as  the  jabs  of  our  mos- 
quitoes do  to  us." 

177 


NOBODY'S 

Hartley  winced  visibly.     He  cast  his  eyes  down. 

"The  method  is  known,  and  set  down  as  a  splen- 
did remedy  in  the  best  medical  works,' '  he  said. 
"And  Celeste  has  read  everything  of  any  conse- 
quence in  my  sister's  library." 

"Yes,  yes,  so  I  have  heard."  El  wood  seemed  to 
be  groping  for  his  friend's  mood,  as  if  it  were  a 
material  thing  as  elusive  as  a  shy  mouse,  which, 
being  hungry,  crept  forward  and  yet  scampered  off 
at  the  slightest  sound.  "As  to  the  other  matter — 
your  horrible  handling  by  those  mountain  men,  and 
the  lucky  pretext  by  which  you  managed  to  es- 
cape— " 

"Pretext!"  Hartley  broke  in,  with  a  touch  of  in- 
dignation. "It  was  no  pretext.  I  said  it  because 
I  was  practically  convinced  of  the  fact." 

"Convinced  that — convinced  that  Celeste" — the 
eyes  of  the  lawyer  grew  large  in  perplexity — "you 
can't  mean,  Gordon,  that  you  actually  believe  she 
is  all  white?" 

"Not  only  do  I  believe  it  to  be  true,"  Hartley 
said,  warmly,  "but  my  sister  believes  it,  too."  In 
a  few  direct  words  he  told  Elwood  of  the  tests  Miss 
Hartley  had  made,  and  of  her  satisfied  conclusion. 

The  trained  legal  mind  was  plainly  at  work. 
Elwood  avoided  the  steady  stare  of  his  companion, 
and,  flushing  slightly,  toyed  with  a  paper-knife  on 
a  writing-table  at  his  elbow. 

"Yes,  I  read  of  that  case."  And  Hartley  missed 
the  enthusiasm  in  both  face  and  voice  which  he 

178 


NOBODY'S 

anticipated.  "There  was  a  lot  about  it.  The  de- 
fendants gained  their  point  because  there  was  noth- 
ing at  stake,  and  they  were  respectable  white  people 
who  were  known  to  be  descended  from  the  same 
source  as  the  boy.  They  fought  for  it  tooth  and 
nail,  because,  if  it  had  gone  against  the  boy,  it  would 
have  damned  the  social  pretensions  of  a  lot  of  well- 
to-do  people.  The  papers  your  sister  saw  all  came 
out  in  favor  of  the  boy — they  were  too  politic  to  do 
otherwise — but  I  was  down  at  New  Orleans  not  long 
ago,  and  found  that — well — to  tell  the  truth — I 
didn't  meet  a  lawyer  that  didn't  laugh  at  the  ver- 
dict. They  all  agreed  that  the  so-called  tests  didn't 
amount  to  any  more  than  the  opinions  of  well-paid 
alienists  in  a  swell  murder  trial." 

Hartley  said  nothing.  The  room  was  growing 
darker,  now  that  the  sun  was  down,  and  Elwood 
failed  to  see  the  resentful  flush  that  had  suffused 
his  face.  Elwood  was  wondering  what  to  do  or  say 
when  Hartley  broke  the  silence. 

"You  don't  know  Celeste  as  my  sister  and  I  do," 
he  said,  in  a  constrained  tone.  "If  you  did,  you 
could  not  believe  such  a  taint  possible.  I  have 
burned  my  bridges,  Elwood.  I  don't  intend  to  go 
back  a  step.  My  sister  and  I  are  going  to  fight  this 
thing  to  a  finish,  and  we  are  going  to  win." 

Elwood  stared  rigidly  at  his  friend  for  a  moment, 

and  then  in  sheer  perplexity  he  reached  out  and 

pulled  the  string  of  a  window-shade  and  drew  it  up. 

The    additional   light    revealed   an   expression   on 

13  179 


NOBODY'S 

Hartley's  face  that  fairly  confounded  the  matter- 
of-fact  lawyer. 

1 'By  Jove,  I  don't  follow  you,  old  chap,"  he  said, 
lamely.  "I  don't  quite  make  you  out.  You  used 
to  have  as  logical  a  bent  in  college  as  any  man  in  our 
fraternity,  and  yet — well,  to  be  frank,  I  can't  see 
the  slightest  ground  for — for  such  a  supposition. 
Why,  since  our  talk  out  there  in  the  General's  old 
home,  I  have  thought  of  several  things  which  go 
pretty  conclusively  toward  proving  that  young 
Cary  Lowndes  was  the  girl's  father.  The  first  is  the 
striking  resemblance  of  the  girl  to  Dorothy  Lowndes 
and  the  General's  wife.     The  second — " 

Hartley  held  up  his  hand. 

"Don't  go  any  further,"  he  said,  peremptorily. 
"To  speculate  on  that  line  is  an  insult  to  a  noble 
white  girl,  and — and,  Elwood,  as  much  as  I  like 
you,  and  as  true  a  friend  as  you  are,  I  can't  listen  to 
it  without  resentment." 

"Good  God!"  That  was  the  sum  and  substance 
of  Elwood' s  reply. 

"You  may  say  'Good  God'  in  any  tone  you  like," 
Hartley  fired  at  him,  coldly,  "and  you  may  think 
what  you  like,  but  I  realize  that  aid  cannot  come 
to  a  helpless,  suffering  woman  as  long  as  I  look  at 
the  very  opposite  side  than  that  from  which  rescue 
can  come.  You  can't  win  a  battle  by  thinking  of 
defeat.  You  can't  win  in  a  matter  like  this  without 
looking  for  proof  on  the  lines  that  will  be  of  assist- 
ance.    Even  you,  as  a  lawyer,  when  you  are  em- 

180 


NOBODY'S 

ployed  on  a  case,  go  to  work  for  your  client.  '  Right 
now  you  have,  simply  and  for  no  reason  that  I  can 
see,  leaned  to  the  other  side  of  the  case.,, 

Elwood  shrugged  his  shoulders  in  growing  em- 
barrassment and  pulled  nervously  at  his  yellow 
mustache,  while  his  eyes  exhibited  a  tendency  to 
avoid  the  condemning  stare  of  his  friend. 

"Perhaps,"  he  said,  with  considerable  poise,  and 
he  laid  a  would-be  pacific  hand  on  Hartley's  knee, 
"perhaps  I  am  acting  from  instinct  or  the  habit  of 
looking  out  for  even  the  approach  of  matters  averse 
to  my  best  client.  I  am  not  as  big  a  fool  as  I  look. 
Things  sometimes  come  to  me  in  flashes  and — " 

"I  don't  see  what  your  client — if  you  mean  Gen- 
eral Lowndes — has  to  do  with  the  matter?" 

Again  Elwood  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "The  old 
gentleman  is  paying  me  to  defend  his  interests, 
Gordon — to  collect  money  here  and  there,  and  de- 
fend this  or  that  puny  dispute  or  claim  at  law.  But 
you,  old  chap,  have  filled  a  glass  with  the  most 
deadly  poison,  and  seem  to  be  expecting  me  to  help 
you  pour  it  down  his  helpless  old  neck." 

"Why  are  you  speaking  in  riddles?"  Hartley  de- 
manded, impatiently.  "This  is  no  time  nor  place 
to  indulge  in  school-boy  rhetoric.  I  have  come  to 
you  as  a  client  myself.  Put  it  that  way  if  you  wish. 
You  may  draw  on  me  for  any  amount  you  see  fit. 
I  am  going  to  see  this  thing  through,  with  your  aid 
or  without  it.  As  for  the  glass  of  poison  poured 
down  a  man's  throat — that  is  sheer  foolishness." 

181 


NOBODY'S 

"I  know  what  I  am  talking  about,"  Elwood  said, 
with  noticeable  warmth.  "I  happen  to  know  that 
you  could  not  even  introduce  your  case  without 
actually  killing  my  client.  If  Cary  Lowndes,  Junior, 
was  not  the  father  of  the  girl,  then  his  sister  Dorothy 
was  the  mother,  and  the  son  of  the  General's  life- 
long enemy  was  her  seducer.  That  charge,  proved 
or  unproved,  would  actually  strike  the  inoffensive 
old  man  dead  in  his  tracks." 

"Oh,  I  see  what  you  mean  now."  Hartley's 
voice  sank  in  disappointment. 

"I'm  glad  you  do,"  Elwood  said.  "Now,  come 
right  out  and  talk  to  me  as  you  would  to  your 
lawyer.  Tell  me;  what  actual  proof  have  you  or 
your  sister  got?" 

"None,  except  the  positive  conviction  that — that 
it  must  be  so — that  Celeste  has  no  black  taint ;  that 
she  could  get  her  resemblance  to  Dorothy  Lowndes 
in  no  other  way.  The  poor  woman  was  not  seen  by 
any  one  except  Mam*  Ansie  and  a  few  others  for  a 
year  after  the  tragedy.  She  was  morbidly  afraid 
of  her  father,  and  the  effect  her  trouble  would  have 
on  his  temper  and  the  scandal  against  a  proud  old 
name.  She  impressed  this  on  her  confidential  maid 
to  such  an  extent  that  at  her  death  she  exacted  a 
promise  of  Mam*  Ansie  to  call  the  child  her  own. 
Had  the  poor  lady  been  in  the  possession  of  all  her 
senses  and  foreseen  the  disaster  that  would  come  to 
her  child  in  the  future,  she  would  not  have  done  so." 

"Yes,  yes,"  admitted  Elwood;  "and  yet,  you  see, 
182 


NOBODY'S 

Dorothy  Lowndes  may  have  been  simply  trying  to 
hide  her  dead  brother's  indiscretion  from  her  father, 
who  thought  better  of  him  than  that.  Mam'  Ansie 
no  doubt  betrayed  by  her  grief  over  young  Cary's 
sudden  death,  that  —  that  —  but  vou  understand 
what  I  mean." 

"  We  must  leave  all  that  out  of  our  consideration," 
Hartley  demanded.  "I'm  not  in  the  mood  even  to 
talk  about  it.  I  have  a  further  reason  for  my  con- 
victions." 

"Oh,  you  have?  Well,  out  with  it.  So  far  you 
have  not  advanced  anything  of  a  startling  or  con- 
vincing nature  to  support — " 

"Listen  to  me."  Hartley  glanced  furtively  tow- 
ard the  door,  as  if  fearing  interruption  from  some 
outsider  who  might  have  business  in  the  office. 
"Since  I  arrived  at  my  sister's,  Pomp,  a  son  of  one 
of  the  General's  old  slaves,  has  been  my  special 
servant.  He  seems  to  have  taken  a  strong  liking 
to  me,  and  I  think  he  has  been  more  open  with  me 
than  he  has  ever  been  with  any  one  before,  and,  too, 
in  regard  to  this  very  matter.  He  told  me  one  day 
that  he  was  an  actual  witness  to  the  tragedy." 

"Oh,  I  didn't  know  that?"  Elwood  exclaimed. 
"He  certainly  dodged  the  coroner's  inquest.  But 
they  all  tried  their  best  to  shirk  that,  including  the 
General's  poor  daughter.  Sympathy  prevented  a 
rigid  examination  of  her,  as  it  was.  But  you  say 
Pomp  saw  it?" 

"He  not  only  saw  it,  but  has  revealed  a  thing  to 
x83 


NOBODY'S 

me  that  even  you  evidently  don't  dream  of.  He 
told  me  that — "  Hartley's  voice  became  fine  and 
thin,  as  if  his  vocal  organs  had  contracted.  "I  find 
it  hard  to  speak  frankly  of  this  particular  phase  of 
the  matter,  Elwood;  but  to  get  at  the  facts  I  see  I 
must  do  so,  painful  as  it  is." 

"I  see,  I  see,"  Elwood  said,  encouragingly,  with- 
out knowing  exactly  why  his  friend  should  feel  as  he 
did. 

"Pomp  told  me,"  Hartley  resumed,  "that  Dorothy 
Lowdnes  had  spent  the  night  preceding  the  morning 
on  which  the  tragedy  occurred  somewhere  with  her 
lover — and  that  when  she  returned  home,  as  day  was 
about  to  break,  she  found  her  brother  there  waiting 
for  her." 

"Good  Lord!  you  don't  mean  to  say — "  El- 
wood's  voice  broke  and  he  could  only  stare  open- 
mouthed. 

"She  not  only  found  him  there  armed  to  the 
teeth,  and  as  nearly  crazy  as  a  man  could  be,"  Hart- 
ley went  on,  dropping  his  words  like  bits  of  lead  on 
hard  metal,  "but  he  accused  her  of  the  worst  offense 
against  family  honor  that  a  woman  could  commit." 

"Good  God!"  cried  Elwood.  "You  mean  to  say 
that  he  thought — that  he  really  believed — " 

"But  even  that  wasn't  all,"  Hartley  went  on, 
crisply.     "Pomp  says  she  defended  herself." 

"I  see — denied  that  anything  really  wrong  had 
taken  place,"  Elwood  put  in,  anxiously.  "Of  course 
a  man  in  young  Cary's  state  of  mind — " 

184 


NOBODY'S 

"She  denied  nothing.  As  well  as  I  was  able  to 
gather  from  such  an  ignorant  witness  as  Pomp,  she 
was  justifying  her  act  on  the  ground  that  there 
could  be  no  impurity  in  fact  where  there  was  none  in 
intent — that  the  enmity  of  the  two  families  had 
made  her  and  her  lover  a  law  unto  themselves.11 

* '  Great  heavens !  If  we  could  only  rely  on  Pomp's 
story,"  Elwood  cried,  "what  a  wonderful,  wonderful 
difference  it  would  make!" 

"I  am  satisfied,"  Hartley  declared.  "It  is  all  as 
plain  as  day  to  me.  Cary  Lowndes  left  his  sister  in  a 
swoon  in  her  room  up-stairs  and  was  in  the  hall  below 
when  Martin  Rawson  crept  in  at  the  front  gate  bring- 
ing back  a  shawl  that  Dorothy  had  left  when  with 
him.  Pomp  saw  the  two  meet,  heard  Rawson  say- 
ing that  he  was  ready  to  do  the  'honorable  thing.' 
Then  the  firing  began  and  both  men  fell." 

When  Hartley  had  finished  he  sat  in  absolute  si- 
lence watching  the  changed  countenance  of  his  friend. 

"This  puts  a  different  phase  on  it  entirely,"  he 
admitted.  "There  may  be  a  lot  in  this  view  of  it. 
It  is  certainly  worth  going  into."  He  laid  his  hand 
on  Hartley's  knee  and  added:  "Just  think  of  it,  old 
man,  that  beautiful  girl  may  be  the  very  flower  of 
those  two  proud  families,  with  all  their  refinement 
and  sensitiveness,  and  yet  be  consigned  for  life  to — 
Great  God!  it  is  too  horrible  to  think  about.  Say, 
Gordon,  I'm  with  you.  The  revelation  might  kill 
the  General — it  doubtless  would — but  what  is  his 
spent  life  to  the  other  just  beginning?" 

185 


NOBODY'S 

At  this  point,  and  while  the  hands  of  the  young 
men  were  locked  in  a  strong  clasp,  there  was  a  sud- 
den and  imperative  rapping  with  a  cane  on  the  sill 
of  the  front  door. 

" Where  are  you?  Where  the  devil  are  you?" 
came  in  piping  tones  of  irritability. 

"It  is  the  old  man  now!"  Elwood  said,  under  his 
breath;  then  aloud:  "Here  I  am,  General.  Come 
back." 

The  next  moment,  as  the  two  young  men  rose  to 
their  feet,  General  Lowndes  came  into  the  room, 
tapping  the  floor  tentatively  with  his  cane.  Hand- 
ing Elwood  a  package  of  letters,  he  said,  as  he 
glanced  at  Hartley  and  dropped  his  eyes  to  the 
floor:  "Answer  these.  You'll  know  what  to  say;  I 
don't." 

"All  right,  General."  Elwood  took  the  letters, 
and  as  he  fumbled  them  in  his  hands  he  noticed  that 
the  two  men  had  politely  glanced  at  each  other. 
"General,  I  know  you  are  in  a  hurry,  but  if  you  will 
allow  me  I'd  like  to  present  an  old  college  chum  of 
mine,  Mr.  Gordon  Hartley.  He  is  visiting  his  sister 
over  near  your  place.  I  think  I've  heard  you  say 
you  knew  Mr.  Hartley's  father." 

"I'm  glad  to  meet  you,  sir,"  the  General  began,  at 
first  reluctantly,  and  then,  as  it  seemed,  borne  along 
by  some  current  of  earlier  habit,  he  grew  more 
affable.     "I  hope  you  like  Fairview." 

"Very  much  indeed."  Hartley  bowed  over  the 
cold,  withered  hand. 

186 


NOBODY'S 

Both  he  and  Elwood  expected  the  General  to  turn 
away,  but  the  old  man  lingered.  There  seemed  a 
sort  of  incipient  glow  of  interest  in  his  parchment- 
like face.  He  tapped  the  floor  with  his  cane  and 
faintly  smiled.  "Yes,  I  knew  your  father  quite 
well,"  he  said.  "We  were  good  friends.  His  name 
was  Gordon,  too.  I  was  sorry  to  read  of  his  death. 
He  and  I  belonged  to  the  same  club  in  Louisville. 
I  was  a  non-resident  member  who  dropped  in  town 
once  a  year.  There  was  a  whole  string  of  places  of 
interest  before  the  war — Charleston,  Savannah, 
Richmond,  New  Orleans,  for  the  opera,  and  the  only 
Paris  we  could  dip  into  on  this  side  of  the  water. 
Your  father  and  I  had  great  disputes  on  the  slavery 
question.  He  was  financially  able  to  free  his  slaves, 
and  mine  meant  bread  and  meat  to  me,  and  so" — ■ 
there  was  the  faintest  resemblance  to  a  chuckle  of 
amusement  in  the  quavering  tones — "and  so  I've 
always  thought  that's  why  we  were  divided.  But 
your  father  was  a  good  man — he  had  a  principle  and 
stuck  to  it.  I  remember  he  foresaw  the  defeat  of  the 
South  and  used  to  try  to  make  converts  of  us  all. 
But  we  only  laughed  at  him  and  told  him  it  was  his 
Wall  Street  affiliations  that  were  at  the  bottom  of 
his  patriotism.  Well,  I  must  get  along.  I'm  pleased 
to  make  your  acquaintance."  And  courteously 
touching  his  old  silk  top-hat,  the  General  bowed  and 
left  the  room. 

"That  simply  took  my  breath  away!"  Elwood 
said,  with  a  pleased  smile  when  the  tap- tap  of  the 

187 


NOBODY'S 

cane  had  died  out  in  front.  "  I  have  never  seen  him 
so  affable  before.  He  must  have  taken  a  liking  to 
you." 

''Perhaps  he  felt  my  deep  sympathy  and  respect," 
Hartley  said,  simply.  "I  believe  there  is  a  lot  in 
that  sort  of  thing.  If  you  harbor  hatred  against  a 
man,  he  will  feel  it  stream  from  you  like  an  irritat- 
ing force.  If  you  have  a  kindly  feeling,  the  effect 
will  be  just  the  opposite." 

"Well,  you  certainly  hit  him  in  the  right  spot." 
Elwood  smiled.  "He  hasn't,  to  my  knowledge, 
treated  a  man  as  decently  as  that  since  his  great 
trouble  soured  him  against  the  world  at  large. 
Now,  let's  get  down  to  business.  I'm  interested. 
I  don't  say  that  Pomp  can  be  wholly  relied  on — 
negroes  like  to  be  listened  to  by  their  superiors,  and 
he  may  have  made  up  much  of  what  he  told  you; 
but  it  is  too  grave  a  matter  to  be  passed  over.  I'll 
tell  you  what  I'm  going  to  do.  If  Mam'  Ansie  is  not 
the  mother  of  that  girl,  old  Jake  and  Jennie  will 
know  it.  They  will  do  anything  I  like,  and  I  shall 
cross-examine  them  sharply.  I'm  going  out  there 
very  soon,  and  I'll  do  my  best  to  dig  something  out 
of  them." 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

ABOUT  the  middle  of  the  following  week,  while 
i  Mam'  Ansie  was  at  work  in  her  kitchen  ironing 
some  of  the  dainty  things  belonging  to  C61este,  a 
little  negro  boy  came  and  stood  in  the  open  door. 
He  waited  indifferently,  his  eyes  on  a  cat  that  was 
basking  in  the  sunlight  on  the  door-step.  Ansie 
did  not  notice  him,  and  kept  on  with  her  work, 
and  the  boy  sat  down  on  the  step  and  began  to 
stroke  the  animal's  back. 

"Kitty,  kitty,  po'  kitty!"  he  said  to  the  squirm- 
ing and  purring  cat.  Hearing  his  voice,  Mam'  Ansie 
put  her  iron  on  the  inverted  plate  which  served  as  a 
rest  and  went  and  stood  over  him,  eying  him  curi- 
ously. 

"What  you  want,  boy?"  she  inquired,  sharply. 
"You  come  here  ter  see  me?" 

"No'm!"  The  child  was  startled  by  being  so 
suddenly  addressed. 

"Well,  what  yer  come  sett  in'  on  my  do' -step  fer? 
Ain't  you  got  de  sense  yer  born  wid?  Tek  yo' 
black  han's  off  dat  cat.  You  don't  have  ter  bresh 
lm. 

The  boy  rose  languidly,  and  with  the  blankest  of 
black  faces  started  away.     At  the  corner,  however, 

189 


NOBODY'S 

he  paused  and  scratched  his  kinky  pate  and  stood 
digging  his  bare  toes  into  the  sand. 

"Mam'  Jennie  done  tole  me  suppin'  ter  tell  you, 
but  I  plumb  forgit  it,"  he  said,  his  eyes  again  on  the 
cat.  "I  done  clean  forgit  what  she  say,  Mam' 
Ansie.  She  say  ter  come,  en — en — oh!  now,  I  know. 
She  say  tell  you  ter  be  sho'  en  come  oveh  dar  ez 
quick  ez  ever  you  kin.  She  want  ter  see  you  right 
off." 

A  grave  look  grasped  Mam'  Ansie's  face.  She 
stared  at  the  messenger  for  a  moment,  and  then, 
hastening  into  the  house,  she  went  along  the  little 
hall  to  Celeste's  room.  The  door  was  closed,  and 
she  gently  rapped  on  it. 

"Come  in,"  Celeste  called  out,  and,  when  Mam' 
Ansie  had  opened  the  door,  she  saw  the  girl  reading 
at  a  window. 

"I  gotter  go  oveh  ter  see  Jennie,"  she  said.  "I'm 
comin'  right  straight  back.  I  won't  be  long — I'll 
mek  haste." 

"Very  well,"  Celeste  answered,  and  her  eyes  re- 
turned to  the  page  before  her. 

Tying  a  red  handkerchief  round  her  head  turban- 
like, and  not  taking  time  to  change  her  attire,  Mam' 
Ansie  hastened  in  a  brisk  walk  down  the  road  to  the 
old  Lowndes  place.  She  was  warm  and  covered 
with  dust  and  perspiration  when  she  arrived  at  the 
gate;  but  she  did  not  slacken  her  speed  as  she 
strode  up  the  weed-grown  and  washed-out  walk. 
She  was  panting  with  over-exertion  and  excitement 

190 


NOBODY'S 

when  she  went  into  a  little  cabin  behind  the  big 
house,  and  Jennie  and  Jake  got  up  to  meet  her. 

Taking  the  proffered  chair,  and  leaning  forward 
and  swinging  her  hands  between  her  pudgy  knees, 
she  blurted  out: 

"Did  you  tell  dat  boy  ter  come  oveh  home  atter 
me?" 

There  was  a  lowering  glance  in  Mam*  Jennie's 
eyes,  which  she  turned  helplessly  on  her  husband's 
serious  visage,  and  then  drove  onward  to  the  visitor. 

"  Yes,  I  done  tol'  'im  ter  go,  Ansie,  kase  me  'n' Jake 
bofe  'low  dat  de  best  thing  ter  do.  We  rolled  en 
tumbled  in  ou'  baid  all  thoo  last  night  kase  we 
didn't  know  what  ter  do,  en  we  been  set  yer  in  ou' 
chairs  all  dis  mawnin'  en  sence  dinner,  but  at  last 
Jake  say,  he  did,  dat  we  done  give  you  ou'  promise, 
en  dat  we  des  must  keep  it,  en  ef — ef  we  hear  any- 
thing 'bout  Celeste — " 

1 '  Celeste  ?  What  'bout  her  ?"  Mam'  Ansie  gulped, 
now  pale  and  rigid,  her  knees  trembling  like  shaken 
jelly.  ' '  Tell  me,  tell  me !  What  got  in  you  two,  any- 
how?    Has  you  plumb  los'  yo'  senses?" 

"Mam'  Ansie" — old  Jennie  moved  her  chair  away 
from  the  visitor  and  placed  it  close  to  her  husband's 
— "Ansie — now  yer  ain't  gwine  like  dis,  but  'twan't 
we-all's  fault.  Yestiddy,  'bout  er  hour  by  sun, 
Marse  El  wood  rid  up  at  de  gate  en  come  in  de  ya'd. 
He  looked  all  erbout,  fus'  at  dis  thing,  en  dat  thing, 
en  ax  is  dis  been  'ten'  to,  en  is  dat  thing  been  fix,  en 
den  he  set  down  in  der  cheer  you  got  now,  en  scratch 

191 


NOBODY'S 

er  match  en  light  er  cigar.  He  give  one  ter  Jake,  en 
'low  me  'n  Jake  bofe  was  mighty  faithful  folks,  en  he 
gwine  ter  see  dat  old  marster  provides  well  for  us 
in  his  will,  en  give  us  good  buryin'  when  'ou  time 
come,  en — en — " 

"He  talked  too  much,  Ansie,"  old  Jake  broke  in, 
oracularly,  leaning  his  sharp  elbows  on  his  slender, 
ill-clad  knees.  "He  hat  too  much  rigmarole,  en 
didn't  look  'zactly  lak  he  ginerally  do.  He  kinder 
spread  honey  on  his  braid,  en  look  lak  I  done  see  'im 
when  he  tryin'  dat  time  in  de  Court  House  ter  make 
Marse  West's  Jim  own  up  dat  he  broke  in  dat  corn- 
crib.  I  was  'spicious,  en  when  he  wasn't  watchin' 
me  I  sheck  my  haid  at  Jennie.  I  sheck  ma  haid,  I 
did." 

"In  de  name  er  all  possessed,"  Mam'  Ansie  thun- 
dered, "why  ain't  yer  tol'  me  what  he  say?" 

"'Twasn't  what  he  say  so  much,  Ansie,"  Jennie 
faltered,  with  a  subdued  groan,  "as  'twas  de  way  he 
say  it.  He  commence  in  er  round-erbout  way,  en 
say  dat,  of  course,  everybody  know  dat  Lessie  ain't 
yo'  daughter — " 

"My  Gawd!  he  say  dat — Marse  Elwood  say  dat?" 
gasped  Ansie.  "He  was  des  tryin'  ter  fool  you, 
en—" 

"I  seed  dat,"  Jake  put  in,  confidently.  "I  seed 
it  es  soon  es  dat  white  man  open  his  mouf,  en  dat's 
why  I  sheck  my  haid  at  Jen — " 

A  deep  groan  from  Mam'  Ansie's  turbulent  breast 
interrupted  him. 

192 


NOBODY'S 

"My  Gawd,  have  mercy !"  she  cried.  "I  was 
af eared  dis  would  come.  Old  marster  is  on  we-all's 
track.  He  made  up  his  mind  dat  he  gwine  ter  sift 
dis  thing  out,  en  he's  set  dis  lawyer-man  ter  wuk. 
My  Gawd,  I  knowed  suppin'  was  in  de  win'  last 
night,  kase  young  miss  come  en  rap  three  times  on 
my  window.  She's  oneasy.  She  can't  res'  in  'er 
grave,  kase  she  know  what  old  marster  will  do  ef 
he  finds  out  'bout  dat  po'  chile.  He's  er  devil  wid 
tail  en  claws,  en  mo'  of  er  devil  now  dan'  he  was 
when  he  try  ter  shoot  young  miss  away  back  dar. 
All  burnin'  hell  is  packed  in  dat  old  man.  He 
boun'  ter  do  his  devilment  'fo'  he  die,  en  he  ain't 
got  long.  He  got  dat  lawyer  paid  ter  do  de  dirty 
wuk,  en  you — you — I'll  bet  you  bofe  des  set  here  en 
—en  tol'  'im— tol'  'im— " 

"Not  one  wud,  Mam'  Ansie,"  old  Jennie  whim- 
pered. * '  Huh,  we  know  better !  Old  marster  would 
kill  us,  too,  kase  we  ain't  let  'im  know  all  dis  time. 
Marse  Elwood  tried  beggin'  en  pleadin',  en  den  he 
got  on  er  high  hoss,  he  did,  en  tried  ter  browbeat  us. 
He  say  we  know  who  Lessie's  maw  was,  en  ef  we 
didn't  come  out  wid  de  trufe  he  gwine  sen'  us  bofe 
ter  jail." 

"Ole  marster  is  at  de  bottom  of  it!"  Mam*  Ansie 
repeated.  "Mark  my  wud.  But  he  des  shall  not 
know.  He  would  kill  dat  po'  chile,  he  so  proud,  en 
he  would  be  so  mad.  Young  miss  done  say  so,  en 
she  was  seem'  wid  dyin'  eyes,  en  hat  de  clear  sight  of 
er  angel  of  light.     De  last  wud  she  say  was,  'Don't 

i93 


NOBODY'S 

tell  'im,  mammy — ef  you  have  ter  die  fur  it,  don't 
tell  'im.  De  only  one  dat  know  'bout  me  en  Martin 
was  my  brother,  an'  his  lips  is  close  in  de  grave.' ' 

"What  you  tek  on  at  sech  er  rate  fer?"  old  Jake 
asked,  as  he  stood  up,  shambled  in  his  worn  shoes  to 
the  door,  and  leaned  against  the  shutter.  "Old 
marster  ain't  gwine  ter  fin'  out.  Marse  Elwood  was 
plumb  outdone.  He  sorter  look  lak  he  conclude  he 
is  off  de  track,  fer  he  hung  his  haid  en  say  he  reckon 
he  said  mo'  ter  us  dan  he  ort,  en  he  was  sorry,  bein' 
es  he  reckon  we  was  tellin'  him  de  trufe." 

"Dat  so,  dat  so,"  chimed  in  Jennie,  with  a  smile 
which  was  not  wholly  free  and  was  meant  for  com- 
fort. "He  didn't  mek  anything  out  o'  us,  en  ef  he 
was  ter  go  ter  you  now,  you  would  know  what  he  is 
up  to  en  be  raidy  ter  meet  'im.  Dat  why  we  sent  fer 
you.,, 

"He  better  not  come  botherin'  me."  Mam*  Ansie 
scowled.     "I'll  sen'  him  'bout  his  business." 

There  was  silence  in  the  room,  through  which  va- 
rious kinds  of  reflections  percolated.  Then  suddenly 
old  Jennie  said : 

"Oh,  I  done  clean  forgot!" 

"Forgot  what?"  Mam'  Ansie  demanded,  and  she 
saw  that  Jake  was  nodding  knowingly  as  if  he  under- 
stood what  was  coming. 

"Why,  Ansie,  dat  man  ax  us  ef  we  know  what 
come  er  all  de  money  young  miss  hat  when  she  died, 
en  ef  we  know  whar  her  diamonds  en  pearls  is  done 
been  hid  erway." 

194 


NOBODY'S 

Mam'  Ansie's  ashen  cheeks  hung  like  folds  of 
damp  leather.  Her  mouth  opened  and  her  lips 
quivered  and  twitched.  Her  eyes  grew  small  and 
shrewd  as  the  lids  contracted  over  them.  Her 
breast  rose  high  as  she  inhaled  a  deep  breath  and 
held  it  in  abeyance,  but  she  said  absolutely  nothing. 
Jake  and  his  wife  watched  her  furtively  under  their 
swarthy  brows.  It  was  evident  that  even  they  had 
not  sounded  the  full  depths  of  the  woman  before 
them. 

"How  I  know?"  she  suddenly  answered  in  a 
dogged  and  desperate  tone. 

"Marse  Elwood  say  mebby  you  do  know,"  Jake 
ventured,  as  delicately  as  was  possible  to  his  crude 
diplomacy. 

"Huh!  dat  white  man  kin  say  what  he  wants,  dat 
don't  mek  it  so,"  Mam'  Ansie  answered,  her  eyes 
steadily  fixed  on  the  sunlight  falling  on  the  grass 
outside. 

Jake  cleared  his  throat  and  changed  the  position 
of  his  splaying  feet.  "White  men,  en  mo'  specially 
dem  sly  lawyers,  is  de  very  old  Nick  ter  haid  off  when 
dey  strack  er  scent  en  git  deir  nose  ter  de  trail. 
Marse  Elwood  talk  powerful  knowin'.  He  say  some 
quar  things  'bout  you,  Mam'  Ansie.  I  didn't  let  on, 
Gawd  know  I  didn't  say  er  wud,  kase  it  ain't  nothin' 
ter  me.  I  ain't  hat  none  er  de  money  nur  seed  de 
diamonds  sence  de  big  ball  ole  marster  give,  en 
young  miss  hat  um  all  on,  en  de  Governor  was  dar, 
en  say  she  look  pine-blank  lak  de  picture  of  'er  ma." 
14  195 


NOBODY'S 

"You  fool,  what  he  say — what  dat  lawyer  say?" 
Ansie  broke  in,  now  quivering  with  suspense. 

' '  Why,  he  say,  Ansie,  dat  er  whole  lot  er  money  is 
sho'  been  spent  on  Celeste,  fust  en  last — dat  you  done 
fotch  'er  up  lak  er  fine  lady,  en  ain't  never  'lowed  'er 
ter  mix  wid  black  folks,  en  dat  anybody  kin  know 
you  ain't  hat  no  way  er  mekin'  so  much  in  dese  hard 
times.  He  say  old  marster  done  give  some  little  help 
ter  some  er  his  niggers,  but  not  er  cent  went  ter  you, 
accordin'  ter  his  own  knowledge,  kase  marster  hate 
de  groun'  you  walk  on.  He  say  ef  he  cayn't  mek 
you  open  yo'  jaw  'bout  Celeste,  he  kin  run  dat 
money  down  by  law.  He  say  folks  has  been  fo'ced 
ter  talk  in  er  court-house,  en  maybe  you  would  be  in 
dat  fix." 

"Huh!  he  powerful  smart!"  Ansie  sniffed.  "Dat 
was  young  miss's  money,  en  she  could  do  whut  she 
want  wid —  Shucks!  I  don't  know  nothin'  'bout 
no  money.  I  worked  hard — I  tuck  in  washin'  en 
ironin',  en — well,  dat  my  business,  anyway.  Huh! 
I  say  he  gwine  ter  jail  me !  He  cayn't  scare  me  wid 
his  big  talk."  She  stood  up  and  shuffled  toward  the 
door. 

"I  des  ax  you  one  thing,"  she  threw  back  from  the 
threshold,  from  which  Jake  had  withdrawn.  "You 
two  keep  yo'  promise  ter  me.  I  gwine  hold  you  to 
it.  Ef  you  don't,  young  miss's  sperit  will  hang  roun' 
you  wuss'n  it  do  roun'  me." 

Visible  shudders  passed  over  the  husband  and 
wife.     They  eyed  Mam'   Ansie  now  with  anxious 

196 


NOBODY'S 

glances.  "We  all  right,  Ansie,"  Jennie  cried.  "I 
don't  want  no  ha'nts  roun'  me.  I  done  see  ernough 
in  de  front  yard  whar  dem  po'  young  men  was  killed. 
Every  year  on  dat  night  I  hear  groans  en  gurglin' 
blood." 

Mam'  Ansie  was  outside  now,  and  she  leaned  in  the 
doorway,  her  brows  still  drawn,  her  face  heavy. 

"Ef  Marse  Elwood  say  any  mo',  sen'  me  wud.  I 
want  ter  know  what  he  up  to,  so  I  kin  be  raidy  fer  oY 
marster.  We  gwine  hat  trouble,  you  en  me  en 
Lessie." 


CHAPTER  XIX 

TWO  days  after  this  Colonel  Gorman  and  his  wife 
and  niece  went  to  Chattanooga  to  spend  the 
day,  going  by  rail  from  Lowndesville.  Hartley  had 
declined  to  go,  saying  that  he  would  much  pre- 
fer the  quiet  of  the  plantation,  and  had  other  things 
to  do. 

He  had  been  for  a  walk  on  the  nearest  mountain 
that  afternoon,  and  on  his  return,  as  he  was  passing 
the  open  door  of  the  library,  a  golden,  silken  mass 
above  the  back  of  an  easy-chair  told  him  that  Celeste 
was  reading  there.  He  paused  undecidedly,  and 
finally  tore  himself  from  the  impulse  to  join  her  and 
went  into  the  parlor  across  the  hall.  He  was  about 
to  sit  down  to  rest  at  an  open  window  when  Jincy, 
the  housemaid,  handed  him  a  note. 

"It's  fum  Marse  Elwood,"  the  girl  said.  "He  rid 
up  des  after  you  went  off.  He  said  he  couldn't  wait, 
en  ax  me  fer  pen  en  ink  en  paper,  en  set  down  en  writ 
it  at  de  writin' -table.' ' 

When  the  girl  had  withdrawn,  Hartley  opened  the 
note. 

"Dear  old  man,"  it  ran,  "I  am  sorry  to  miss  you. 
I  am  afraid  I  have  bad  news,  for  I  know  how  you 
have  set  your  heart  on  the  thing  we  talked  about 

198 


NOBODY'S 

recently.  I  went  to  see  those  old  negroes  and  did 
everything  in  my  power  to  discover  if  they  knew 
anything  which  would  point  to  the  fact  we  hope  to 
establish,  but  I  am  obliged  to  confess  that  I  was 
unable  to  gather  any  evidence.  They  flatly  assert 
that  they  know  nothing.  I  shall  leave  no  stone  un- 
turned to  carry  this  thing  through,  but  I  must  con- 
fess that  I  find  myself  up  against  a  wall  which  I  can 
neither  see  through  nor  climb  over.  I  had  great 
hopes  of  accomplishing  something  in  this  direction, 
and  feel  much  disappointment  over  my  failure.  As 
you  see,  it  makes  the  outlook  decidedly  gloomy. 
Even  if  Pomp's  story  has  any  significance,  it  is  off- 
set, you  see,  by  the  firm  claims  of  Mam'  Ansie  and 
our  inability  to  controvert  her  by  any  living  wit- 
nesses. You,  of  course,  can  see  how  cruel  and  un- 
justifiable it  would  be  of  us  to  bring  the  matter  to 
the  General's  attention,  reading  him  as  you  must  be 
able  to  do.  The  man  does  not  live,  in  my  opinion, 
who  would  dare  to  mention  the  case  to  him.  If  I 
could  see  any  possible  benefit  in  so  doing,  I  might 
do  so,  and  face  his  fury,  but  so  far  there  is  abso- 
lutely no  advantage  in  sight.  He  would  promptly 
show  his  resentment,  and  the  mystery,  if  there  really 
is  one,  would  be  deeper  than  ever. 

"I  was  almost  glad  when  the  servant  told  me  just 
now  that  you  were  out,  for  I  want  to  say  some- 
thing which  I  would  find  hard  to  say  to  your  face. 
I  can't  bear  to  see  the  cloud  of  anger  that  I  am  sure 
will  be  on  it.     Gordon,  old  man,  there  is  no  one  alive 

199 


NOBODY'S 

whom  I  admire  and  care  for  as  much  as  I  do  you, 
and  I  am  having  a  big  fight  with  myself  to  summon 
the  courage  to  do  my  duty,  as  I  see  it,  to  the  warm- 
est, closest  friend  I  have.  I  shall  not  go  into  de- 
tails. I'll  cut  it  short,  but  I  am  praying  that  you 
will  understand  me  and  not  be  offended  beyond 
forgiveness  for  this  enforced  frankness.  Dear  old 
man,  I  read  your  face  and  voice  the  other  day,  and 
know  that  the  feeling  which  has  come  on  you  will 
never  leave  a  man  of  your  great  nobleness  and  big- 
ness of  nature.  So  I  must  implore  you  to  pause 
and  not  act  rashly  or  with  haste.  You  must  see 
that  nothing  but  disaster  would  be  both  your  re- 
ward and — hers.  Forgive  me,  old  man,  but  I  hope, 
in  your  desperation  over  the  matter,  that  you  will 
not  let  the  poor  girl  suspect  your  feeling  toward  her. 
Such  a  girl  could  not  keep  from  loving  a  man  like 
you,  and  to  love  you  would  be  the  crowning  misery 
to  an  already  miserable  existence.  You  are  head 
and  shoulders  above  the  men  of  the  past  who,  in 
your  place,  would  treat  lightly  the  heart  of  such 
an  unfortunate  one.  My  dear  Gordon,  you  are  in 
peril,  and  so  is  she.  Forgive  me  for  my  frank- 
ness, and  believe  me,  as  always,  your  truest 
friend. 

"P.S. — By-the-way,  the  General  has  taken  a 
phenomenal  liking  to  you.  He  was  in  the  office 
yesterday  talking  about  you.  I  am  not  quite  sure, 
but  I  think  your  father  must  have  done  him  a  con- 
siderable service  shortly  after  the  war." 

200 


NOBODY'S 

Hartley  clutched  the  letter  in  his  hand,  and  sink- 
ing into  a  chair  at  the  window,  he  looked  out  on  the 
grass  and  flowers.  How  heartlessly  the  placid  sun 
beat  down!  How  profound  and  full  of  despair 
seemed  the  still,  sultry  air!  Above  his  head  an  im- 
prisoned wasp  fought  the  window-pane  up  and  down, 
as  if  unable  to  understand  the  transparent  obstacle 
to  its  freedom.  Outside,  on  the  roof  of  a  woodshed, 
blue-and- white  pigeons  were  strutting  and  cooing. 
From  the  cotton-fields  came  the  merry  songs  of  the 
black  laborers. 

"Elwood  is  right,"  Hartley  cried,  in  anguish. 
"There  is  nothing  ahead  for  her  or  me.  She  must 
be  kept  in  ignorance.  She  must  never  suspect  that 
I  am  aflame — that  I  would  die  a  thousand  deaths 
for  her  sake.  My  God,  how  lovely  she  is — how 
sweet,  how  wronged,  for  she  has  been  wofully 
wronged !  She  is  what  I  think  her,  what  I  al- 
ways shall  think  her  —  the  racial  equal  of  my 
mother!" 

With  a  soundless  sob  he  lowered  his  head  till  his 
hot  brow  rested  on  the  cool  window-sill.  Then  he 
heard  music  in  the  library.  Some  one  was  touch- 
ing the  keys  of  the  old  piano  almost  as  gently, 
it  would  seem,  as  falling  flakes  of  snow.  He 
raised  his  head  to  listen.  It  was  a  sweet,  appealing 
little  improvisation,  such  as  he  had  heard  stealing 
from  Celeste's  violin  across  the  moonlit  fields.  He 
rose.  Elwood's  warning  words  beat  on  his  brain, 
but  something  within  him,  above  and  beyond  the 

201 


NOBODY'S 

reach  of  precaution,  had  clutched  him  as  with  a 
thousand  resistless  arms. 

What  harm  could  there  be,  the  tempter  whis- 
pered, in  merely  letting  her  know  he  liked  her 
music?  Stealing  across  the  hall,  he  entered  the 
library.  She  was  seated  at  the  piano,  her  back 
toward  him,  her  white  hands  flitting  like  spirit  doves 
over  the  yellow  keys.  Then  he  saw  her,  still  play- 
ing, turn  toward  a  window  over  which  clematis 
vines  were  creeping.  Her  delicate,  exquisite  pro- 
file was  more  beautiful  than  any  carved  marble  he 
had  ever  seen.  The  thick  carpet  muffled  his  step 
as  he  slowly  advanced.  He  reached  the  center  of 
the  room  unobserved,  and  moved  on  till  he  was 
close  behind  her.  Then  he  saw  the  traces  of  tears 
on  her  cheeks,  the  moisture  still  clung  to  her  long, 
curling  lashes.  Suddenly  she  ceased  playing,  reached 
out  and  picked  up  a  book  lying  face  downward  on 
the  piano,  and  as  she  glanced  at  it  he  heard  her 
sigh. 

"Don't  stop,  please!"  he  cried,  and  then  she  looked 
at  him;  she  started,  and  a  flood  of  crimson  filled 
her  face. 

"I  can't  play,"  she  said,  her  eyes  down,  and  it 
seemed  to  him  that  she  shrank  visibly. 

"But  I  heard  you,"  he  protested,  "and  it  was  so 
sweet  and  appealing  that  I  had  to  come  in.  I  hope 
I  have  not  disturbed  you.  I  am  just  back  from  a 
walk  on  the  mountain.  I  found  your  favorite  spot 
on  the  cliff.     My  sister  told  me  you  loved  it.     I 

202 


NOBODY'S 

understand  now  why  you  go  there  so  often.     The 
view  is  wonderful." 

She  arched  her  brows  in  tentative  surprise. 

"  Perhaps  you  did  not  find  the  exact  spot  I  like 
best,"  she  ventured,  timidly.  "There  are  many 
pretty  places  along  the  bluff." 

1  •  I  found  the  exact  spot, ' '  he  smiled.  ' '  There  was 
no  mistaking  it." 

The  expression  of  mild  surprise  grew  in  her  eyes. 
"I  can't  see  how  you  would  know,"  she  said.  "I'm 
sure  no  one  has  ever  seen  me  there.  There  is  no 
path  leading  to  it;  it  is  quite  cut  off  from  view, 
hemmed  in  with  bushes,  rugged  boulders,  and  wild 
vines." 

"I  know,"  he  jested,  "and  yet  I  found  it.  I'm  a 
regular  Sherlock  Holmes  at  that  sort  of  work.  You 
have  failed  to  cover  your  tracks.  In  the  first  place, 
a  certain  flat  stone  dangerously  near  the  edge  of  the 
most  frightful  cliff  on  the  mountain  had  a  spot  on 
it  which,  unlike  the  rest,  was  free  from  dust." 

"Oh!"  she  cried,  smiling  up  into  his  amused  face. 

1 '  My  next  clue  was  some  tiny  bits  of  cedar  chipped 
from  a  lead-pencil." 

"Oh!"  she  exclaimed  again. 

"Then  I  found  hidden  in  a  crevice  of  the  rock  a 
cracked  teacup  filled  with  greenish  water,  and  could 
swear  you  were  painting  a  landscape  in  water- 
colors." 

"I'm  caught,"  she  laughed,  as  merrily  as  a  child 
playing  a  game. 

203 


NOBODY'S 

"You  didn't  like  the  picture,  either,"  he  went  on, 
"for  I  found  a  bit  of  it  which  you  threw  away.  You 
doubtless  dropped  the  fragments  over  the  edge  of 
the  cliff,  but  the  wind  blew  one  of  them  back,  deter- 
mined to  prove  to  some  one  that  your  art  was  better 
than  your  judgment  of  it." 

She  seemed  to  lapse  into  a  reflective  mood  and 
made  no  response.  Her  glance  sought  the  book  in 
her  lap. 

"I  noticed  that  you  were  reading  when  I  passed 
through  the  hall  awhile  ago,"  he  said.  "Have  you 
found  something  you  like?" 

She  glanced  round  at  the  bookshelves.  "I've 
been  here  all  day.  When  I  get  interested  in  any 
particular  subject  or  line  of  thought  I  can't  stop  till 
my  curiosity  is  satisfied." 

He  wanted  her  to  continue  playing,  but  felt  in- 
stinctively that  she  would  not  do  so. 

"You  must  feel  your  music  deeply,"  he  ventured, 
in  an  indirect  approach  to  the  subject.  "I  am  sure 
you  were  actually  crying  when  I  came  in." 

She  flushed  a  trifle  at  this  and  hastily  brushed  her 
lashes  with  her  dainty  cambric  handkerchief.  "Oh, 
was  I ?"  she  cried.  "I  am  sure  I  do  sometimes.  It 
is  very  silly  of  me,  but  I  can't  help  it." 

"I  hope  your  tears  were  not  sad  ones?"  He  at 
once  regretted  the  impulse  which  had  driven  the 
words  to  the  surface. 

"There  are  tears  of  joy,"  she  evaded,  "and  I  think 
mine,  when  I  play,  at  least,  may  sometimes  belong 

204 


NOBODY'S 

to  that  class.  In  my  poor  music  my  imagination 
has  full  play  and — and  I  think  I  am  happier  then 
than  at  any  other  time.  Have  you  ever  thought" 
— she  bent  her  wistful  eyes  on  him  like  an  eager 
child  thirsting  for  information  from  an  older  person 
— "that  the  very  possession  of  an  imagination,  in  a 
way,  proves  the  existence  of  a — a  spiritual  life  free 
from  all  pain  and  material  horrors?" 

"I  had  never  thought  of  it,"  he  answered,  ad- 
miringly, "but  the  point  is  well  taken.  It  looks 
very  reasonable." 

He  seemed  to  see  her  mantle  of  reserve  fall  from 
her  as  if  shaken  off  by  the  vigor  of  her  individual 
mentality,  which  was  ever  eager  of  expression. 

"And  that  is  why,"  she  continued,  "I  have 
hoped,  even  prayed,  that  I  might  die  while  in  one 
of  my  musical  moods.  It  seemed  such  a  beautiful 
way  of  obtaining  release." 

"Oh,  I'm  sorry  to  hear  you  say  that,"  he  pro- 
tested, while  the  fiercest  of  forebodings  clutched  at 
his  heartstrings.  "That  is  a  little  too  much  like 
thinking  of  suicide,  and  surely  we  all  know  that  is 
terribly  wrong." 

"Poof!"  She  snapped  her  delicate  fingers  and 
tossed  her  proud  head.  "That,  like  everything  else, 
is  relative.  There  are  times  when  God  can  show  his 
mercy  in  no  other  way.  Why,  as  I've  sat  on  my 
cliff,  with  nothing  between  me  and  death  on  the 
rocks  below,  I  have  almost  felt  that  God  was  away 
off  behind  the  whitest  of  the  white  clouds,  in  the 

205 


NOBODY'S 

bluest  part  of  the  blue  sky,  beckoning  to  me  and 
whispering  that  I  was  a — a" — she  smiled  faintly — 
"a  misfit  here  in  these  awful  shadows  and  would  be 
a  useful  link  in  something  harmonious  there.  But 
I  can  see  your  view,  too.  To  bear  with  much  here 
and  help  others  in  trouble  is  sweet  and  soothing. 
That  is  exactly  what  I  am  planning  now.  That's 
what  I  was  trying  to  get  at  in  my  reading  to-day. 
But  I  can't  find  it.  I  have  been  through  hundreds 
of  books,  but  I  can't  happen  on  the  information  I 
want." 

"What  is  the  subject?"  Hartley  asked.  "Per- 
haps I  might  be  able  to  aid  you  a  little." 

1 '  Oh,  if  you  only  would !"  A  look  that  was  almost 
ecstatic  illumined  her  face  and  eyes,  and  she  leaned 
toward  him,  her  lips  parted,  her  beautiful  teeth 
showing  like  pearls  set  in  coral.  "I  am  so  helpless. 
Sometimes  I  feel  like  a  child  born  all  alone  in  a 
wilderness,  and  left  to  grope  here  and  there  for  a 
key  to  the  great  meaning  of  the  universe  from  the 
blades  of  grass  and  bits  of  stone  at  my  feet,  the  fall 
of  rain,  the  shine  of  the  far-off  sun.  For  instance, 
I  haven't  the  slightest  idea  of  what  your  life  in  New 
York  is  like.  I  know  no  more  of  it  than  a  blind  man 
does  of  color,  the  deaf  man  of  the  wonderful  com- 
binations of  sound.  So  you  see,  in  trying  to  navi- 
gate my  frail  little  boat  I  am  without  sail  or  rudder. 
I  realize  that  I've  got  to  do  something.  I  can't  re- 
main like  this.  Material  horrors  as  bad  as  night- 
mares are  closing  round  me.     I  must  act.     There 

206 


NOBODY'S 

must  be  something  for  me.  Scientists  say  nothing 
was  created  without  a  purpose.  The  idea  I  am  after 
now  seems  a  sort  of  solution,  but  it  may  not  be,  after 
all.     I  have  chased  many  a  rainbow.' ' 

"  What  is  the  subject  ?"  Hartley  asked,  a  weight  of 
sympathy  on  him  that  amounted  to  sheer  bodily 
pain. 

"I  want  to  know  something  about  convents," 
Celeste  replied.  "I  have  read  just  enough  to  want 
to  know  more.  I  may  not  understand  their  purpose 
at  all,  but  so  many  times  in  novels  I  have  read  of 
persons  who,  when  they  lost  all  hope  of  happiness, 
were  allowed  to  go  into  convents  and  there  spend 
the  rest  of  their  lives  in  working  for  others.  Those 
persons  are  represented  as  throwing  off  every  earthly 
responsibility  and  care  and  living  in  the — the  very 
companionship  of  God.  Oh,  it  is  so  beautiful!  It 
seems  too  beautiful  to  be  possible.  I  have  seen 
pictures  of  nuns  in  their  peaceful  white  hoods  and 
black  dresses,  their  faces  full  of  divine  gentleness. 
Oh,  Gordon" — she  seemed  unconscious  of  the  use  of 
his  name — "I  want  to  be  a  nun." 

"You — you?"  His  heart  was  crushed  as  if  in  a 
vise  of  steel.  He  leaned  toward  her;  his  hands 
were  half  extended,  but  they  fell  to  his  knees.  El- 
wood's  humane  warning  stood  before  him  as  if 
written  in  letters  of  fire  which  burned  in  his  brain. 
"Oh,  you  could  not — you  could  not!  Not  you, 
Celeste!"  he  all  but  groaned  from  the  depths  of  his 
perturbed  spirit. 

207 


NOBODY'S 

"You  think  not?"  she  said,  and  he  saw  her  face 
fall.  The  wonderful  light  grew  dim  in  her  eyes  and 
the  corners  of  her  mouth  fell  and  quivered.  ' '  I  was 
afraid  of  that.  I  was  trying  to  see  if  I  could  pos- 
sibly find  anything  bearing  on  my  own  peculiar  case. 
Some  references  led  me  to  hope  that  convents  were 
open  to  all,  but  it  was  a  false  hope.  Of  course  they 
are  for  white  persons,  and  the  slightest  taint — " 

*  *  Oh,  for  God's  sake  have  mercy !' '  Hartley  bowed 
his  head  and  shook  from  head  to  foot.  But  he 
checked  his  emotion.  Elwood's  warning  seemed  to 
shriek  at  him  as  the  voice  of  some  disembodied  spirit. 
His  absolute  helplessness  where  he  seemed  so  much 
needed  fairly  unmanned  him.  It  was  the  despond- 
ent silence  of  the  girl  that  caused  him  to  regard  her 
suddenly.  She  was  gazing  out  at  the  window,  the 
most  dejected  figure  he  had  ever  beheld.  Their 
glances  met.  She  shrugged  her  shoulders  and  forced 
a  wry  little  smile. 

"Then  that  was  another  wild-goose  chase!"  she 
murmured.  Suddenly  she  held  out  her  round,  white 
wrist  to  him.  She  swallowed,  and  added:  "I  wish 
I  had  a  powerful  microscope,  more  powerful  than 
any  ever  invented.  I'd  open  my  veins  here" — she 
put  her  finger  on  one  of  the  blue  lines — ' '  and  examine 
the  blood  to  discover  the  germ,  or  whatever  it  is,  that 
has  set  me  aside  from  all  the  rest  of  the  world.  This 
convent  now — the  one  thing  established  to  stand  for 
God's  universal  love,  as  the  refuge  of  the  down- 
fallen,  the  heavy-laden,  even  that  is  closed  to  me." 

308 


NOBODY'S 

"I  don't  think  it  is."  Hartley  despised  himself 
for  even  that  approach  to  an  acknowledgment  of 
the  blight  upon  her.  "I  don't  know  for  sure,  but 
I  think  they  are  open  to  everybody.  But  you 
mustn't  think  of  it.  It  is  horrible,  and  you  so  young 
and  helpless.     You  must  not  lose  hope  like  this." 

"So  you  think  they  might  take  me,  after  all?"  A 
wistful  look  crept  into  her  face.  "I  should  love  it — 
oh,  so  much!  It  would  be  like" — her  soft,  musical 
voice  broke — "like  heaven  here  on  earth.  I'd  have 
useful  employment  then.  Mammy  wouldn't  care. 
She  wouldn't  oppose  it.  She  understands  that  some- 
thing must  be  done.  She  knows  it  can't  go  on  as  it 
is.  She  realizes  that  I  am  for  neither  one  race  nor 
the  other.  Your  sister  has  been  good  to  me,  but 
I  can't  go  on  imposing  on  her.  I've  cost  her  enough 
already.  That  awful  trouble  of  yours  was  due  to 
me.  Miss  Cynthia  hasn't  explained  why  they  re- 
leased you.  She  doesn't  seem  to  like  to  talk  about 
it,  and  I  don't  like  to  ask."  She  paused  and  looked 
at  him,  a  pathetic  shadow  in  her  eyes. 

It  was  on  his  tongue  to  tell  her,  as  he  had  told 
those  men,  of  his  conviction  as  to  her  pure  white 
origin,  and  yet  he  checked  himself.  Elwood  was 
right.  Without  proof  of  some  sort  he  had  no  right 
to  stir  hope  in  her.  He  was  silent,  and  as  he  looked 
at  her  he  saw  her  breast  heave  and  heard  her  sigh. 

"I  shall  find  out  about  the  convent,"  she  said, 
under  her  breath.  "Surely,  surely  they  will  take 
me.     I'd  work  so  hard.     I'd  be  as  good  as  I  possibly 

209 


NOBODY'S 

could.  It  would  be  so  sweet  to  forget  myself  com- 
pletely— to  lose  myself  in  the  care  of  others." 

It  had  grown  dark  in  the  room.  He  could  now 
scarcely  see  her  face.  Going  to  a  window,  he  drew 
the  curtains  aside  and  looked  out.  The  sky  was 
overcast  with  heavy,  lowering  clouds  as  thick  and 
black  as  the  smoke  of  coal.  Just  then  Jincy  put  her 
head  in  at  the  door  and  said  to  Celeste: 

' '  Mam'  Ansie  say  dere  is  gwine  ter  be  er  awful  big 
win'  sto'm,  en  fer  you  ter  stay  yer  in  de  big  house  till 
it's  oveh." 

Hartley  failed  to  catch  Celeste's  reply.  He  saw 
that  she  was  still  seated  at  the  piano  in  an  attitude 
of  troubled  thought.  He  heard  Jincy  as  she  went 
through  the  parlor  across  the  hall,  closing  windows 
and  calling  out  excited  warnings  to  the  other  ser- 
vants, who  were  huddled  like  frightened  sheep  in 
the  kitchen.  Looking  out  again,  he  saw  that  the 
clouds  had  fallen  even  lower.  They  seemed  blacker, 
denser,  and  more  turbulent.  Now  and  then  an 
ominous  roar  of  thunder  broke  on  his  ears,  and  the 
rolling  clouds  were  split  by  zigzag  flashes  of  light- 
ning. The  flashes  increased,  following  one  another 
in  such  rapid  succession  that  the  whole  black  sky 
was  ablaze  with  quivering  light.  Hartley  could 
scarcely  see  twenty  yards  before  him.  The  trees 
on  the  lawn,  bowing,  swaying,  twisting,  were  en- 
veloped in  murky  spots  of  gloom  which  shifted  as 
if  driven  here  and  there  by  the  capricious  whirl- 
pools of  air.     The  long,  white  fence  emerged  from 

2IO 


NOBODY'S 

the  darkness  now  and  then  like  a  mighty  fallen 
pillar  which  till  now  had  held  the  firmament  in 
place.  The  wind  rose  till  it  fairly  screamed,  as  it 
tore  across  the  fields  and  meadows.  Leaves,  twigs, 
and  fragments  of  moss  rattled  against  the  window- 
panes.  Dust  in  scurrying  clouds  was  torn  from  the 
dry  fields,  forced  through  the  crevices  at  the  win- 
dows and  doors,  and  could  be  felt  on  the  skin  and 
between  the  teeth.  There  was  a  sudden  dazzling 
stream  of  electricity,  a  deafening  crash,  and  a  big 
oak  near  the  house  was  shattered  into  a  thousand 
splinters.  A  heavy  limb  was  hurled  upon  the  roof 
and  slid  down  to  the  earth.  There  was  another 
flash.  The  lightning  played  like  pyrotechnic  snakes 
over  the  table,  chairs,  and  shelves  of  the  room. 
Running  to  Celeste,  who  still  sat  at  the  piano, 
Hartley  touched  her  on  the  arm. 

" You'd  better  come  away,"  he  warned  her.  "I 
have  heard  that  the  steel  strings  attract  electricity." 

"Thank  you,  I'm  not  afraid,"  she  said,  calmly. 
"Isn't  it  grand  and  glorious?"  She  went  to  a  win- 
dow and  stood  close  to  the  glass,  and  he  followed 
her. 

"It  is  dangerous  here,  too,"  he  said. 

"I'm  not  at  all  afraid,"  she  repeated.  "I  would 
like  to  be  out  in  it.  I'd  like  to  feel  the  wind  tear  at 
my  hair  and  hurl  me  along  to  death,  to  oblivion, 
to — anything;    it  wouldn't  matter." 

"Why  do  you  speak  so  recklessly?"  he  faltered. 

"Does  it  sound  so  to  you?"  she  asked.     "I  have 

15  211 


NOBODY'S 

often  thought  I'd  like  to  die  in  some  such  way.  I 
seem  to  feel  that  God  has  this  storm  in  hand,  that 
it  is  His  mighty  whip,  you  know,  with  which  He  is 
lashing  the  earth.  Now  He's  punishing  all  alike, 
beast,  bird,  fish,  insect.  I  am  tired  of  being  the 
only  thing  that  has  to  bear  pain  and — and  humilia- 
tion that  is  worse  than  death." 

"Oh,  how  you  torture  me!"  The  words  would 
have  reached  her  but  for  the  roar  of  the  tempest. 
He  had  a  yearning  that  was  almost  unconquerable 
to  clasp  her  in  his  arms,  and  had  it  been  lighter  she 
would  have  read  a  desperation,  an  adoration  in  his 
face  that  would  have  been  a  revelation  to  her. 

The  wind  was  dying  down.  The  rain  was  beating 
in  at  a  broken  pane  overhead  and  shedding  a  fine 
mist  upon  her  bare  head.  He  called  her  attention 
to  it,  but  she  only  laughed. 

"I'm  neither  sugar  nor  salt,"  she  quoted.  "It 
can't  hurt  me.  I  seem  to  be  burning  up  with  fever 
— the  fever  of  unconquerable  desire  for — for  some- 
thing." 

He  was  as  silent  as  if  he  had  been  born  dumb. 
He  could  only  gaze  at  her  in  mute  agony. 

Gradually  the  gray  skies  grew  yellow,  the  rain  and 
wind  ceased.  There  was  only  the  drip,  drip  of  water 
from  the  eaves  of  the  house  and  the  sluggish  crystal 
drops  that  lengthened  and  slid  down  the  panes  from 
the  mullions.  An  infinite  calm  had  settled  on  the 
face  of  the  earth.  Going  into  the  hall,  she  turned 
suddenly  to  the  great  front  door  and  opened  it.     He 

212 


NOBODY'S 

tried  to  do  it  for  her,  but,  not  knowing  her  intention, 
he  was  not  quick  enough.  She  seemed  to  under- 
stand what  he  would  have  done,  and  her  face  bright- 
ened from  some  conscious,  inner  cause. 

"Let  us  walk  down  to  the  gate — would  you  mind  ?" 
he  asked,  doubtful  of  her  willingness  to  have  his 
company. 

She  seemed  to  hesitate  for  a  moment,  then,  as  if 
the  reckless  mood  were  still  on  her,  she  nodded; 
and  with  the  step  and  poise  of  a  queen  she  led  the 
way  across  the  veranda  and  down  the  steps  to  the 
walk.  In  the  west  the  sunset  skies  were  purple  and 
gold.  Islands  of  amethyst  floated  in  opalescent 
seas.  The  air  was  delightfully  cool  and  laden  with 
the  perfume  of  storm-beaten  flowers.  They  leaned 
on  the  gate  together.  Presently  their  glances  met. 
She  read  his  face;  she  drew  back  with  a  start  and 
read  it  again,  now  probingly,  almost  desperately. 
His  hand  went  out  to  hers.  It  was  closing  on  it, 
when  she  drew  it  away  quickly  and  firmly. 

"No,  no,  never!"  she  cried,  and  he  saw  her  firm, 
round  breast  rise  convulsively.  "There  is  a  danger 
I  must  be  strong  enough  to  protect  you  against, 
as  well  as  myself.  That  awful  book  taught  me  that. 
You  must  not — oh!  you  must  never  think  of  me  as 
— as — but  you  understand  what  I  mean.  I  owe  it 
to  your  sister.  I  owe  it  to  you.  I  owe  it  to  God, 
who  has  given  me  the  light  with  which  to  look 
ahead." 

"You  need  not  be  afraid!"  he  cried.  "As  God  is 
213 


NOBODY'S 

my  witness,  my  lips  shall  be  mute  until — until — " 
Again  he  had  forgotten.  Elwood's  warning  hand 
seemed  to  be  laid  on  his  lips. 

"Until  death,"  she  said,  and  turned  from  him. 

11  Until  God  gives  you  to  me!"  he  said  to  himself,  as 
his  famished  eyes  followed  her  away.  "If  I  can't 
release  you  from  the  damnable  toils  about  you  I 
shall  go  mad.  I  won't  have  a  life  that  I  cannot 
share  with  you.  I  refuse  to  have  comfort  and  free- 
dom in  my  strength  while  you,  so  young  and  help- 
less, are  in  despair." 


CHAPTER  XX 

ONE  morning  Hartley  was  waiting  for  Elwood 
in  the  latter' s  office  at  Lowndes ville.  It  was 
about  ten  o'clock  and  the  sun  was  fiercely  beating 
down  on  the  streets.  The  storekeepers  were  sprink- 
ling the  pavement  in  front  of  their  shops ;  there  was 
little  traffic  or  business.  Few  men  wore  coats,  and 
many  used  their  straw  hats  for  fans  to  cool  their 
flushed  faces. 

"Oh,  here  you  are!"  Elwood  exclaimed,  as  he  en- 
tered, with  a  stack  of  letters  and  newspapers  in  his 
hands.  He  had  been  at  the  post-office  waiting  for  a 
delayed  train.  He  smiled  sheepishly  and  added: 
"I'm  glad  you  haven't  got  a  gun  in  your  hand.  I 
did  a  very  bold  thing  when  I  wrote  that  note,  but  I 
did  it  as  a  friend." 

"I  understand,  old  man,"  Hartley  said,  "and  I 
am  sure  you  are  right.  You  know  me  better  than 
any  living  man  and  comprehend  what  it  means  to 
me. 

Elwood,  now  quite  serious,  sat  down  at  his  desk 
and  turned  to  Hartley,  slitting  his  envelopes  with  a 
slender  paper-knife  and  laying  them  aside  to  be 
read  later. 

215 


NOBODY'S 

"I  couldn't  help  it,"  he  said.  "I  didn't  know  that 
I  could  be  so  much  interested  in  any  matter,  but  as 
I  was  going  to  your  house  that  day  I  happened  to 
meet  Celeste.  She  was  on  the  lawn  and  I  stopped 
to  speak  to  her.  Well,  I  hardly  know  how  to  put  it. 
It's  queer  how  differently  we  see  things  when  our 
eyes  are  opened  by  the  insight  of  another.  On 
former  occasions,  when  I  had  simply  thought  of  her, 
you  know,  as  — well,  what  the  average  person  thinks 
her  to  be,  the  daughter  of  Mam'  Ansie,  I  had  not 
allowed  her  condition  to  bother  me,  but  with  your 
convictions  in  view,  I  found  myself  with  my  hat  off 
and  metaphorically  at  her  feet.  I  have  a  sort  of 
sneaking  reverence  for  the  old  patrician  things  that 
are  passing  away  among  us,  and  I  seemed  to  be  trans- 
ported back  into  the  past  I've  heard  my  father  and 
mother  speak  about.  Across  the  fields  I  saw  the 
old  Lowndes  mansion  and  almost  believed  that  I 
was  talking  to  Dorothy  herself.  Before  I  left  her  I 
was  sure  that — that  there  is  too  much  at  stake  for 
you  and  me,  as  men  of  honor,  to  allow  this  thing  to 
rest  till  it  is  cleared  up.  No  man  could  look  that 
girl  in  the  face  and  believe  in  the  reality  of  the 
racial  stain  upon  her.  She  is  a  queen  of  fair  young 
womanhood,  as  sensitive  and  delicate  as  a  morning- 
glory  that  shrinks  from  the  light  of  day." 

"I'm  glad  to  hear  you  speak  so,  old  man,"  Hartley 
said,  controlling  his  voice  with  difficulty.  "I  was 
sure  that  you  would  see  it  as  I  did  if  you  were  given 
the  chance." 

216 


NOBODY'S 

Elwood  nodded  his  head  gravely  and  gave  his 
friend  a  steady  look.  ' '  That's  why  I  warned  you, ' '  he 
went  on.  "No  man  of  honor  ever  dealt  with  a  more 
ticklish  situation.  We  feel  the  truth  of  the  matter, 
but  until  we  can  prove  our  ground  to  the  satisfaction 
of  the  world  we  must  move  cautiously  and  take  no 
false  steps.  With  a  blight  like  that  on  her,  Celeste 
would  marry  no  man,  even  if  the  law  would  permit 
it,  but — but  her  heart  is  her  own,  and  her  mother 
died  of  grief  at  the  loss  of  her  lover.  Gordon,  I  must 
be  plain — plainer  than  I  was  in  my  letter.  Old  man, 
this  charming  girl  is  in  danger." 

"Danger?"  Hartley  started  and  stared  anx- 
iously. 

"Yes.  She  is  as  proud  and  haughty  as  Dorothy 
Lowndes  was,  but  she  cannot  hide  her  feelings.  She 
is  falling  in  love  with  you." 

Hartley  flushed  to  the  roots  of  his  hair,  a  blaze  of 
supreme  joy  lit  his  eyes.  "It  can't  be  so,"  he  said, 
in  a  voice  that  sank  into  huskiness.  "You  are  mis- 
taken. You  have  not  seen  as  much  of  her  as  I 
have.  There  are  things  of  which  I  have  not  told 
you,  that — "  Hartley  went  no  further.  Elwood  had 
laid  his  hand  on  his  shoulder. 

"We  won't  argue  about  it,"  he  said,  "but  I  am 
not  a  bad  judge  of  persons,  and  I  am  sure,  so  sure 
that  I  am  deeply  worried,  both  for  you  and  her. 
That  poor  child  has  borne  enough,  Gordon,  without 
loving  in  vain,  and  if  we  cannot  work  this  thing  out 
satisfactorily  she  will  have  to  love  in  vain." 

217 


NOBODY'S 

The  color  died  down  in  Hartley's  face.  "You 
mean — "     He  faltered,  an  anxious  look  in  his  eyes. 

"I  mean  that  she  will  simply  suffer,  that's  all. 
She  has  a  very  penetrating  mind,  and  she  knows 
what  her  condition  means — how  the  world  looks  at 
it.  I  could  see  it  in  every  delicate  line  of  her  tender 
face,  in  every  glance  of  her  eyes  when  she  spoke  of 
your  sister,  and  in  the  studious  avoidance  of  any 
reference  to  you.  I  know  how  you  feel.  I  know 
that  she  has  become  more  than  life  to  you.  She 
would  become  so  to  me.  She  is  wonderful,  wonder- 
ful !  If  a  man  would  not  fight  for  a  woman  like  that 
he  would  be  no  man  at  all.  God  never  created  a 
more  lovely  or  more  appealing  creature." 

The  two  men  sat  in  silence  for  several  minutes,  then 
Hartley  sighed.  "What  is  to  be  done,  old  chap?  I 
simply  had  to  come  to  you.  I  am  almost  crazed  with 
anxiety.  I  don't  see  her  now.  She  avoids  me 
studiously.  Since  that  trouble  with  the  moun- 
taineers she  has  almost  stopped  coming  to  our  house, 
though  she  used  to  be  very  happy  in  the  library. 
My  sister  goes  to  see  her  often,  but  it  is  seldom  that 
she  can  persuade  Celeste  to  come  to  us.  The  poor 
little  thing  seems  to  feel  that  she  is  the  cause  of  trouble 
to  us.     We  can't  possibly  disabuse  her  mind  of  it." 

Here  Hartley  told  of  Celeste's  desire  to  enter  a 
convent,  and  he  heard  his  friend  sigh. 

"Ah,  I  see!"  he  cried.  "I  had  not  thought  of 
that;  after  all,  it  may  be  the  final  solution,  and  we 
may  as  well  keep  it  in  mind  in  case  of — " 

218 


NOBODY'S 

"Never!"  Hartley  cried,  in  desperation.  "It  is 
too  pitiful  to  think  of.  She  has  had  no  chance  at 
life  in  any  sense.  Convents  are  well  enough  for  per- 
sons who  have  tasted  the  joys  of  existence  and 
grown  tired  of  them,  but  Celeste — " 

"I  know,  I  know,"  Elwood  interrupted  the  lag- 
ging words;  "but  what  under  the  sun  is  there  to 
do?  The  case  is  simply  a  critical  one.  I  don't 
want  to  make  you  blue,  but  I  failed  only  yesterday 
on  the  last  card  I  had  to  play." 

"What  was  that?"  Hartley  leaned  closer  to  his 
friend,  like  a  mechanical  figure  which  all  but  creaked 
at  the  joints.  He  seemed  to  hold  his  breath,  so  great 
was  his  suspense. 

"Well,  you  see,  I  thought,  as  a  last  resort,  I  would 
try  to  get  something  out  of  Mam'  Ansie.  I  saw  her 
at  the  post-office  yesterday  morning,  and  waited  for 
her  outside.  I  stood  on  the  edge  of  the  sidewalk, 
and  as  she  came  out  she  saw  me.  I  tried  to  put  on 
a  casual  smile  of  friendliness — the  sort  of  thing  that 
usually  goes  with  the  colored  people  I  know,  but 
she  —  well,  I  never  looked  into  a  living  face  that 
seemed  more  horrified.  A  moment  before  she  was 
a  normal,  healthy  woman,  but  the  instant  she  caught 
my  eye  she  fairly  staggered  as  she  shrank  back.  I 
approached  her  and  asked  her  if  she  would  not  walk 
round  to  my  office  and  talk  to  me,  pretending  that  I 
wanted  to  ask  about  hiring  some  negroes  to  pick 
cotton  on  the  General's  land.  But  she  would  not 
go  a  step  with  me.     She  shook  like  an  aspen.     Her 

219 


NOBODY'S 

face  was  ghastly.     Her  eyes  burned  like  coals  of 
fire. 

"'What  you  want  wid  me,  white  man ?'  she  asked. 
'I  ain't  gwine  ter  no  law-office.  I  got  business  at 
home,  en  I'm  in  a  hurry.' 

"With  that  she  turned  and  walked  away;  at  the 
corner  of  the  street  I  saw  her  look  back  anxiously 
as  if  she  were  afraid  I'd  follow  her." 

"Perhaps  she  imagined,"  Hartley  suggested,  de- 
spondently, "that  you  had  some  plan  to  bring  her 
into  contact  with  General  Lowndes.  Of  course,  she 
knows  you  represent  him  and — " 

"That  may  be,"  Elwood  admitted.  "But  you 
can  see  how  utterly  hopeless  the  case  is  when  she 
is  our  only  valid  witness.  The  little  Pomp  saw  and 
heard  wouldn't  count,  and  she  might  die  any  day, 
and  thus  remove  every  possibility  of  our  getting  at 
the  truth.  She  is  bound  hand  and  foot  by  super- 
stitious fears.  General  Lowndes  may  live  a  good 
many  years  yet,  and  as  long  as  he  lives  no  man 
would  dare  to  whisper  that  his  dead  daughter  had 
been  concerned  in  a  scandal  like  that.  Why,  I've 
heard  him  speak  with  bated  breath  of  the  humilia- 
tion of  that  sort  of  thing  to  certain  men  of  his  ac- 
quaintance; and  in  this  case  it  appears  that  this 
daughter  was  the  victim  of  his  worst  enemy's  son. 
We  are  certainly  between  two  fires.  We  want  to  do 
justice  to  the  girl,  and  we  cannot  even  start  what 
might  be  a  futile  investigation  without  crushing  life 
and  hope  out  of  a  helpless  old  man." 

220 


NOBODY'S 

Hartley  stared  steadily  at  the  floor.  "It  could 
not  possibly  be  worse,"  he  muttered.  "And  yet 
something  must  be  done.  It  has  to  be  done.  Old 
man,  it  has  to  be  done." 

"The  General  has  taken  a  wonderful  liking  to 
you,"  Elwood  remarked,  a  little  later,  in  an  effort 
at  more  cheerful  speech.  "It  strikes  me  as  very 
odd,  for  it  is  so  unlike  him.  He  inquires  about  you 
every  day.  He  believes  in  the  old  customs,  and  is 
worrying  because  he  has  not  paid  you  and  your 
sister  a  formal  call,  and  because  he  failed  to  recog- 
nize you  that  first  day  here  in  my  office." 

"The  idea!"  Hartley  said.  "It  would  be  absurd 
to  expect  such  things  from  a  man  as  old  as  he  is." 

"He  doesn't  think  of  that,"  the  lawyer  answered. 
"He  would  have  been  to  see  you  in  quite  the  old 
fashion  if  he  had  not  been  averse  to  going  so  near 
his  old  home.  He  has  never  talked  very  freely 
with  me  of  the  past;  but  I  fancy  that  he  and  your 
father  were  rather  close  friends  at  one  time.  If 
he  happens  in  this  morning,  which  is  quite  likely, 
I  think  I  shall  leave  you  with  him  for  a  while,  be- 
cause I  feel  as  if  he  would  be  glad  to  have  me  do  so." 

"I  should  be  glad  to  have  a  chat  with  him," 
Hartley  returned.  "I  sympathize  with  him  deeply. 
Any  one  can  see  that  he  is  suffering." 

Near  noon,  as  Hartley  was  writing  in  the  rear 
room,  he  heard  Elwood  speaking  to  the  General, 
and  in  a  moment  the  old  gentleman  came  back  and 
looked  in  at  the  door. 

221 


NOBODY'S 

"George  told  me  you  were  here,"  he  said,  his  hat 
off,  his  hand  cordially  extended.  "I  hope  I  am  not 
disturbing  you." 

"Not  at  all.  I  have  just  finished,"  Hartley  as- 
sured him,  and  proffered  a  chair.  General  Lowndes 
thanked  him,  and,  still  holding  his  hat  in  his  shaky 
hand,  he  sat  down,  eying  the  young  man  with  a 
genial  and  yet  half- timid  glance. 

"You  look  very,  very  much  like  your  father  did 
at  about  your  age,"  he  observed,  reminiscently. 
"I  noticed  it  when  we  were  introduced  the  other 
day.  I  would  have  spoken  more  freely  to  you  then, 
but  did  not  feel  that  it  was  exactly  the  time  and 
place.  I  have  been  hoping  that  you  would  come 
into  town." 

Hartley  thanked  him,  and  added: 

"My  father  was  not  much  at  home  in  Kentucky, 
General.  His  affairs  kept  him  in  New  York,  and 
as  I  was  away  at  college  part  of  the  time,  I  did  not 
have  the  pleasure  of  hearing  him  speak  often  of 
his  old  friends  and  associates.  But  my  sister  recalls 
his  friendship  for  you." 

The  General  nodded  reflectively.  "He  was  the 
truest  friend  I  ever  had.  I  am  more  indebted  to 
him  than  any  man  I  ever  knew.  I  must  tell  you 
about  it.  It  was  like  him  never  to  have  spoken  to 
you  of  his  great  act  of  kindness  to  me." 

"I  am  certainly  glad  he  was  able  to  serve  you," 
Hartley  returned.  "He  was  kind  to  most  per- 
sons." 


NOBODY'S 

"He  was  more  than  kind  to  me,"  General  Lowndes 
put  in,  with  feeling.  "It  was  just  after  the  war  had 
closed.  I  had,  you  see,  lost  all  my  negroes  and 
had  got  myself  into  a  tight  place  financially.  To 
stem  the  tide  I  borrowed  money  in  Baltimore  from 
unscrupulous  men,  and  being  inexperienced  in  such 
matters,  they  soon  had  me  completely  in  their 
power.  They  were  on  the  point  of  crushing  me 
when  I  discovered  my  peril.  I  went  from  bank  to 
bank  here  in  the  South,  but  received  no  help.  The 
truest  of  friends  turned  from  me — many  of  them, 
after  looking  into  my  affairs,  advised  me  to  give  up 
and  be  done  with  it.  In  utter  desperation  I  went  to 
New  York,  and  there  found  the  chances  of  relief 
even  worse.  I  had  no  idea  of  calling  on  your  father 
for  help,  but  he  heard  of  my  embarrassment  and  in- 
vited me  to  dine  with  him.  I  went,  and  he  inquired 
into  the  condition  of  my  affairs.  I  never  shall  for- 
get the  delicacy  with  which  he  drew  it  all  out  of  me. 
He  was  a  gentleman,  sir — your  father  was  the  most 
perfect  gentleman  I  ever  knew.  He  saw  that  I  was 
reluctant  to  speak  to  him  of  my  trouble,  as  he  was 
a  personal  friend  and  connected  with  banking  in- 
terests, but  he  got  me  to  make  a  clean  breast  of  it 
all.  Then,  sir" — the  General's  voice  shook  with 
emotion — "what  do  you  think  he  did?  What  do 
you  suppose  your  father  did  ?  He  told  me  that  he 
would  assume  the  entire  responsibility,  put  up  the 
money,  amounting  to  a  small  fortune,  sir,  and  give 
me  a  chance  to  get  straight." 

223 


NOBODY'S 

"It  certainly  is  pleasant  to  hear  it,"  Hartley  said, 
quite  drawn  into  the  General's  mood. 

"I  really  hesitated  over  accepting  his  offer,' '  the 
old  man  resumed.  "It  was  too  great  a  favor  to  ex- 
pect of  any  man,  for  the  risk  was  enormous,  but  your 
father  would  not  listen  to  anything  else.  He  even 
laughed  in  his  old  way,  and  teased  me  about  our 
arguments  as  to  the  outcome  of  the  war,  and  ended 
by  having  his  way.  It  was  the  thing  that  saved 
me,"  the  General  ended.  "Your  father  did  me  the 
greatest  service  one  man  ever  did  another.  Can  you 
wonder,  then,  that  I  am  interested  in  his  son  ?  Can 
you  wonder  if  I  say  that  I  am  anxious  to  befriend 
you  for  his  sake?" 

"It  is  very  good  of  you,"  Hartley  said. 

The  two  men  were  silent  for  a  few  minutes,  then 
the  General  said : 

"Your  father  was  kind  and  sympathetic  in  other 
things — things  which  touched  me  closely.  I  went 
to  him  after  I  met  with — with  my  great — "  The 
old  voice  dwindled  into  inarticulate  utterance.  The 
word  "sorrow"  fell  in  whispered  accents.  Hartley 
saw  the  bowed  back  shaking  as  from  sobs  restrained 
by  the  greatest  effort.  "Your  father  was  deeply 
grieved.  He  heard  it  all  as  well  as  I  could  tell  it.  He 
simply  put  his  arm  around  me.  I  remember  that 
his  eyes  rilled  with  tears,  and  I  saw  a  look  on 
his  kindly  face  that  would  have  comforted  any  one 
but  an  insane  man.  I  remember  that  he  said, 
'You  say  I  helped  you  once;  no  man,  Cary,  can 

224 


NOBODY'S 

help  you  now,  but  I  wish  I  could — I  wish  to  God  I 
could!'" 

"Dear  old  dad!"  Hartley  said,  and  then  he  was 
silent,  for  the  General  had  leaned  closer  to  him  and 
laid  a  quivering  hand  on  his  knee. 

"You  are  his  only  son,  Gordon.  You  bear  his 
name  in  full.  He  was  proud  of  you.  He  used  to 
tell  me  about  you,  and  say  he  wanted  me  to  know 
you.  You  have  his  eyes,  his  voice,  his  hands,  his 
mouth  and  nose  and  hair.  My  boy,  I  want  to  be 
your  friend.  I  happen  to  know  that  your  father 
was  not  worth  quite  as  much  when  he  died  as  he 
hoped  to  be.  He  was  too  good-hearted  to  accumu- 
late a  big  fortune.  He  was  in  good  circumstances, 
but  was  not  rich.  I  have  a  fortune  that  is  worth 
nothing  to  me.  I  want  to  help  you.  I  mean  it — I 
mean  it!" 

Hartley  started  and  stared  wonderingly. 

"Oh,"  he  said,  "it  is  good  of  you,  General,  but 
really  I  need  absolutely  nothing  in  a  financial  way. 
For  a  man  of  my  age  my  income  is  a  very  good  one, 
and  the  outlook  is  fair.  I  couldn't  think,  sir, 
of—" 

"Just  like  your  father!"  the  General  said.  "He 
would  accept  nothing,  but  would  lay  down  his  last 
cent  for  a  friend.  I've  grown  to  be  a  crusty  old  dog, 
Gordon.  I  have  lost  all  the  friends  I  ever  had.  I've 
led  a  bitter  sort  of  existence,  but  I  am  tired  of  it.  I 
hope  you  will  come  to  see  me.  My  place  here  in 
town  is  a  disreputable  old  ruin,  but  if  you  will  dine 

225 


NOBODY'S 

with  me  I'll  get  out  some  port  that  is  forty  years  of 
age,  and  I'd  be  happy  to  see  you." 

"I  thank  you,  General,  I  shall  be  glad  to  come." 
And  the  two  men  stood  up  and  clasped  hands  in 
parting. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

ANEW  "darky"  had  come  to  "the  quarter." 
He  was  young,  almost  white,  and  came  from 
Knoxville  on  a  visit  to  Elvira,  who  may  or  may  not 
have  been  his  aunt,  the  negroes  being  quite  as  willing 
to  accept  relatives  as  to  be  accepted  by  them.  The 
quarter  was  agog  with  this  Pete's  personality  and 
accomplishments.  He  was  a  barber,  and  that  meant 
as  much  to  a  colored  man  as  being  a  congressman 
did  to  the  average  white.  He  had  brought  along  his 
guitar,  and  he  played  and  sang  and  told  of  the  grand 
life  in  the  city.  He  wore  stylish  clothes  which  a  rich 
white  "gen' man"  had  only  worn  a  few  times  and 
given  him  because  he  shaved  him  better  than  any 
barber  ever  had.  There  was  a  group  of  open- 
mouthed  admirers  round  Pete  constantly.  He  was 
interpreting  their  dreams  of  a  life  that  was  far  away 
from  them  and  which  might  never  be  theirs.  There 
were  many  parties  and  ' '  shindigs  "  in  his  honor.  He 
sang  a  solo  in  the  little  meeting-house,  and  such  a 
thing  had  never  been  done  before.  He  stood  up 
and  gave  his  '"ligious  'speriunce"  in  a  firm,  un- 
abashed voice,  and  that  was  considered  remarkable, 
as  also  was  his  resonant  ability  to  lead  in  prayer. 
He  used  longer  words  and  misplaced  them  with 
16  227 


NOBODY'S 

more    charm    and    euphony    than    did    the    negro 
preacher. 

One  night  when  he  was  seated  in  Elvira's  yard, 
which  lay  back  of  Mam'  Ansie's,  he  heard  Celeste 
playing  her  violin. 

"Heish!  heish,  niggers!"  he  cried,  "dat  is  sho- 
nough  playin'  er  de  fiddle.  I  certney  been  'bout  er 
lots,  fus'  en  last,  en  I  never  yit  heard  de  beat  uv  it. 
Who  dat? — say,  who  dat,  Elvira?" 

"Mam'  Ansie's  gal,"  the  black  woman  answered, 
indifferently. 

"You  don't  say!  My  Gawd,  'oman,  she  certney 
kin  jerk  er  bow!  I'm  gwine  right  oveh  dar  en  ax  'er 
ter— " 

"Huh!"  His  hostess  sniffed,  and  then  she  ut- 
tered a  low,  rumbling  laugh  and  slapped  her  fat 
thigh.  "You  go  'bout  dat  gal,  en  Mam'  Ansie'll 
bust  yo'  fool  haid  open  wid  'er  washboa'd  en  sick  de 
dawg  on  you." 

"Huh!    you  don't  say — she's   cullud,  ain't  she?" 

' '  She  whiter'n  you  ever  dared  ter  be,  en  you  is  light 
ernough,  de  Lawd  know.  But  you  better  stay 
erway.  I'm  givin'  you  er  piece  er  my  mind  now  fer 
yo'  own  good.  Lawd,  I'm  er  'oman,  en  Ansie  ain't 
never  yit  even  let  me  upen  de  gate." 

"I  reckon  'er  mammy  must  be  some  pumpkins," 
Pete  observed,  in  his  usual  oracular  vein.  "We  got 
dem  sort  in  Knoxville.  Dey  'sist  on  stayin'  'zactly 
wid  dey  own  shade  uv  color.  Huh!  it  funny  how 
town  niggers  is  gittin' — dey  got  deirse'ves  graded  all 

228 


NOBODY'S 

de  way  up  de  scale.  De  lowest  in  de  stack  is  de  blue- 
gum,  blue-black  coon  wid  er  streak  er  bristles  down 
his  back.  Next  is  de  reg'lar  brown-black,  suppin' 
lak  coffee-grounds.  Den  come  de  light  ginger-cake 
nigger,  en  atter  dat  de  yaller  ones,  en  las'  of  all,  de 
plain  white  wid  not  er  kink  in  deir  haids,  lak  me. 
It's  funny  how  it's  all  fixed  up.  Niggers  mek  out 
dey  want  ter  stay  in  dey  own  race,  but  de  furder 
dey  git  f um  it  de  higher  dey  hold  deir  haids.  Huh ! 
I'd  sho'  lak  ter  git  er  peep  at  dat  gal.  I  boun'  you 
she's  uppity." 

The  next  afternoon  Pete  had  his  wish.  As  he  sat 
alone  in  the  front  yard  under  a  shade-tree  he  saw 
Celeste  pass.  She  had  a  sketch-book  under  her 
arm,  and  was  going  to  her  favorite  resort  on  the 
cliff. 

"Huh!"  he  said,  "she  certney  is  er  high-stepper, 
en  she  takes  de  cake  fer  good  looks.  Dat  gal  would 
pass  as  puore  white  anywhar  in  de  Ian'." 

Pete  went  to  the  gate  and  watched  her  till  she  had 
disappeared  on  the  mountain  road.  His  heart  was 
full  of  respect  and  admiration.  He  told  himself  that 
she  was  unusual,  and  more  so  than  any  one  he  had 
ever  met,  even  in  the  city. 

"En,  my  Lawd,  how  she  kin  mek  er  fiddle  talk!" 
He  ended  by  saying,  "I  bet  she  could  cut  didoes  in 
de  cake-walk." 

He  happened,  some  time  later,  as  the  dusk  was 
falling,  to  be  down  the  road  as  Celeste  was  returning. 
Full  of  respect  and  considerably  embarrassed,  Pete 

229 


NOBODY'S 

waited  for  her  to  draw  near,  then  he  doffed  his  jaunty 
straw  hat  and  stammered: 

"Is  you  Mam'  Ansie's  daughter?" 

Regarding  him  in  surprise,  and  thinking  that  he 
might  have  a  message  for  her  from  Miss  Hartley, 
Celeste  paused. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "did  you  want  to  see  me?" 

All  of  the  negro*  s  self-possession  seemed  to  have 
fled.  There  was  something  so  commanding  in  her 
attitude  and  in  the  calm,  superior  glance  she  bent 
on  him  from  her  searching  eyes,  that  he  lost  his 
power  of  speech. 

"No'm,  not  'za-za-zactly,"  he  stuttered.  "I'm 
stayin'  at  Elvira's,  right  jinin'  yo'  maw's,  en  I  done 
hear  you  play  in'  on  yo'  fiddle  last  night.  I  done 
hear  stacks  en  stacks  er  fiddle-playin'  in  my  time, 
but  I  ain't  never  yet  hear  de  beat  o'  yourn." 

"Thank  you,"  Celeste  said,  coldly,  and  she  walked 
on,  thinking  that  at  such  a  hint  he  would  drop  be- 
hind, but  he  failed  to  do  so,  remaining  by  her  side 
and  suiting  his  step  to  hers.  She  was  wondering 
what  to  do  to  rid  herself  of  his  company,  when  the 
last  thing  on  earth  she  could  have  wished  to  happen 
came  to  pass.  Hartley,  on  the  back  of  a  mettlesome 
young  horse,  emerged  from  the  wood  and  crossed 
the  road  directly  in  front  of  her,  headed  for  the  open 
meadow  beyond.  She  observed  his  look  of  utter  as- 
tonishment; she  saw  him  half  check  his  horse  as  he 
touched  his  hat  to  her,  and  then  as  he  rode  onward 
she  noted  the  red  flush  of  anger  in  his  face.     There 

230 


NOBODY'S 

was  no  mistaking  it.  He  was  furious  at  what  he  had 
beheld,  and  she  well  knew  it.  She  saw  the  horse 
bearing  him  farther  and  farther  across  the  meadow, 
but  he  did  not  look  back.  The  negro  was  prattling 
on  about  the  wonders  of  the  life  in  his  city,  but  she 
scarcely  heard  his  voice. 

Then  Hartley  passed  out  of  sight  beyond  a  clump 
of  trees.  She  turned  a  white  face  on  her  would-be 
escort.     She  was  now  desperate. 

"You  mustn't  go  with  me  any  farther,"  she  com- 
manded.    "My  mother  would  not  like  it." 

He  needed  no  second  bidding,  and,  with  a  look  of 
regret  on  his  face  and  doffed  hat  in  hand,  he  fell 
back  behind  her.  She  walked  on  rapidly  now,  bear- 
ing a  load  of  despondency  heavier  than  any  she  had 
ever  borne. 

' '  Oh,  he  saw  me — he  saw  me !"  she  moaned.  ' '  He 
didn't  like  it.  He  was  angry.  Perhaps  he  thinks  I 
allowed  it.  Now,  now  he  knows  what  I  am.  He 
will  be  satisfied  now,  and  never  think  of  me  again. 
He  has  been  trying  to  overlook  and  forget  my 
trouble,  but  this  will  convince  him." 

It  was  growing  dark  when  she  reached  the  gate  of 
Mam'  Ansie's  cottage.  She  saw  the  woman  on  the 
porch,  and  drew  her  sunbonnet  down  over  her  face 
as  she  passed  her,  and  went  on  to  her  unlighted 
room. 

"What  de  matter,  Honey?"  Mam'  Ansie  had  fol- 
lowed her  and  stood  in  the  doorway.  "What  mek 
you  so  quiet  an'  ac'  so  quar?" 

231 


NOBODY'S 

"Nothing,  Mammy,  I'm  all  right — a  little  tired, 
that's  all.  The  mountain  road  is  steep,  and  I  worked 
hard  on  a  picture." 

"What  you  lak  fer  yo'  supper,  Honey?" 

"Nothing,  thank  you,  Mammy,  I'm  not  a  bit 
hungry." 

"Huh!  you  say  you  ain't?  You  ain't  gwine  git 
sick,  is  you?     What  part  hurt  you,  Honey?" 

"No,  I'm  not  sick  at  all,"  Celeste  answered,  sink- 
ing into  a  chair,  seeing  before  her  mental  eye  nothing 
but  a  man  on  a  horse — a  man  with  a  red  frown  on  his 
handsome  face. 

"I  know  what  'tis  now."  Mam'  Ansie  sighed 
deeply.  "You  still  got  yo'  mind  on  dat — dat  what 
yer  call  it  ? — con — convent,  en  you  won't  tek  no  fer 
er  answer.  Honey,  yo'  po'  oV  mammy  would  cut 
off  bofe  'er  arms  to  he'p  you  er  single  bit,  en  I  done 
try  ter  onderstand  'bout  dis  convent  you  want  ter 
go  to.  I  couldn't  onderstand  it  myse'f,  kase  I'm 
sech  er  ignorant  black  'oman,  but  I  went  ter 
Miss  Cynthia,  I  did,  while  you  was  up  dar  on  de 
cliff." 

"You  went  to  her?"  Celeste  found  voice  to  say. 
"Well,  what  did  she  think?" 

' !  Honey,  I  ain't  never  seed  Miss  Cynthia  so  down- 
right 'stonished.  She  mek  me  set  down,  she  did, 
en  ax  me  all  erbout  yo'  new  projec'.  Look  lak  she 
couldn't  talk  erbout  anything  else — des  dat  convent 
you  got  in  yo'  haid.  Why,  Honey,  she  mighty  nigh 
cry,  she  so  worried    She  was  as  pale  as  er  sheet  en  as 

232 


NOBODY'S 

limber  as  er  rag.  She  tuck  on  powerful,  en  say  dat 
er  convent  is  no  place  fer  er  young  pusson  lak  you. 
She  say  dey  des  'stablish  fer  po',  miser' ble  folks  dat 
cayn't  git  no  life  en  happiness  no  urr  way.  She  say 
it  pitiful,  pitiful,  en  dat  we-all  mus'  try  ter  git  it 
out  o'  yo'  haid." 

Her  bonnet  off  and  folded  in  her  lap,  Celeste  stared 
at  Mam'  Ansie  through  the  gloom. 

1 '  Did  she  say  they  would  take  in  anybody  like  me?" 
she  asked,  in  rigid  tones.  "That's  all  I  wanted  to 
know.  Are  there  any  race  restrictions  that  would 
debar  me  from  entering?" 

"Miss  Cynthia  didn't  talk  lak  she  'zactly  know 
'bout  dat,  Honey.  I  don't  know,  but  she  say 
oveh  en  oveh  dat  we  mustn't  let  you  think  of 
it." 

"So  you  wouldn't  want  me  to  go?"  The  words 
floated  on  the  silence  of  the  room  as  if  driven  out  by 
tense  despair.     "You'd  rather  I  wouldn't?" 

Mam'  Ansie  hung  her  head,  then  she  said,  softly, 
reluctantly,  as  if  she  were  conscious  of  the  pain  she 
was  giving:  "I'd  ruther  you  wouldn't,  Honey.  It 
would  break  my  ol'  heart.  I'm  doin'  my  duty  de 
bes'  I  kin,  en  when  er  fine  white  lady  lak  Miss 
Cynthia  say  it  not  bes',  well — " 

"All  right,  I'll  give  it  up,"  Celeste  said,  the  jost- 
ling form  of  a  horseback-rider  in  her  mind's  eye, 
the  heat  of  his  face  in  her  own. 

"You  promise  me,  Honey — you  promise  yo'  po' 
o'  mammy?" 

233 


NOBODY'S 

"Yes,  I  promise,"  Celeste  answered.  "I'll  give  it 
up." 

"Well,  I'm  gwine  ter  mek  you  er  nice  piece  er  but- 
tered cream  toas'  des  lak  you  love,"  Mam'  Ansie 
said,  soothingly.  "You  needn't  come,  Honey.  I'll 
fetch  it  here  to  you." 


CHAPTER  XXII 

THE  night  fell  like  a  vast,  silent,  creeping  mon- 
ster. Celeste  stood  at  her  window  and  looked 
out  as  one  in  a  dream  who  sees  strange,  threatening 
aspects  and  is  unable  to  flee  from  them.  She  had 
made  a  pretense  of  eating  the  toast,  but  had  really- 
thrown  the  greater  part  of  it  out  at  the  window  to 
save  Mam'  Ansie  the  worry  of  finding  it  on  her  plate. 

There  was  revelry  and  merry-making  at  Elvira's 
cabin  in  honor  of  the  hero  of  the  hour.  A  dance 
was  in  progress.  Sam  and  Dingo  and  Frank  were 
taking  turns  at  the  music;  but  Pete's  guitar-playing 
and  singing  were  the  most  applauded.  Celeste  could 
see  the  light  of  the  candles  as  it  fell  on  the  grass  from 
the  windows  and  doors.  There  was  much  laughter, 
much  shouting,  much  clapping  of  hands,  and  the 
thumping  of  bare  heels  on  the  resounding  planks. 

"Heer  come  Pomp  wid  'is  banjo!"  a  little  negro 
boy  piped  up,  and  there  was  thunderous  applause. 
The  tinkle  of  the  instrument  rose  on  the  air.  There 
was  a  clatter  of  bones,  and  Pomp  sang : 

"  De  holler  uv  his  foot  mek  er  hole  in  de  groun', 
Hole  in  de  groun',  hole  in  de  groun'. 
Who  been  heer  sence  I  been  gone? 
Er  long  slim  nigger  wid  er  starch  shut  on." 

235 


NOBODY'S 

"  Dingo  en  Frank  got  ter  see  which  kin  dance  de 
longes',"  Elvira  was  heard  to  propose.  "Sail  in 
Dingo,  en  y'all  mek  er  ring." 

"Git  back,  git  back  dar,  niggers!"  Dingo  ac- 
cepted the  challenge  with  a  guffaw  of  content. 
"Dis  yer  cabin  ain't  gwine  ter  hole  me.  I'll 
bus'  de  flo'  thoo  en  kick  out  de  walls.  Oh,  I'm 
slidin'  down  snow  mountain,  des  es  easy  es  fallin' 
ersleep!" 

"Dat's  right,  nigger,  yo'  gittin'  in  er  weavin' 
way,"  cried  Elvira.  "Frank,  he  gwine  to  beat  you 
ef  you  don't  look  sharp!" 

"  Hump,  hump,  he  humps  erlong. 
Po'  ol*  nigger  ain't  much  strong," 

Pomp  improvised  at  random. 

With  a  shudder  and  a  sigh,  Celeste  left  the  window 
and  sat  down  on  the  side  of  her  bed,  her  little  hands 
clasped  between  her  knees  and  pressed  tightly  to- 
gether. 

"I  can't  go  to  the  convent!"  she  muttered.  "I 
must  give  that  up,  too.  I  can't  live  on  as  it  is.  I 
see  that,  but  mammy  couldn't.  I  cannot  meet  him 
now.  I  must  never  see  him  again.  He  was  an- 
gry—  he  was  bitterly  disappointed.  He  may  not 
actually  blame  me,  but  he  is  disappointed.  He  had 
never  thought  of  me  that  way  before,  and  yet  there 
was  nothing  really  wrong  about  it.  The  man  is  al- 
most white.  He  has  a  soul  like  mine.  Maybe  he 
suffers  as  I  do.     Maybe  he  was  reaching  out  for 

236 


NOBODY'S 

sympathy,  and  a — a  solution,  as  I  have  always  done, 
and  yet — and  yet  I  didn't  want  him  near  me.  I 
must  be  bad.     I  must  have  been  born  bad." 

Presently  she  rose  and  stood  hesitating  in  the 
middle  of  the  room.  Then,  creeping  across  the  cor- 
ridor, she  listened  at  Mam'  Ansie's  ever-open  door. 
The  deep,  sonorous  snoring  of  the  woman  showed 
that  she  was  asleep.  Pausing  only  a  moment  longer, 
Celeste  crept  on  to  the  front  door  and  softly  un- 
locked it  and  went  out.  How  heartless  appeared 
the  stars!  How  pitiless  and  void  seemed  the  vast 
expanse  of  the  night!  Zeke  heard  her  and  barked, 
then  ran  quickly  to  her  side.  She  patted  him  on 
the  head,  and  whispered,  "Go  back!  go  back!" 
He  stood  silent,  wagging  his  tail,  and  she  opened  the 
gate  and  went  out.  Walking  rapidly,  she  passed 
the  merry  cabin,  and  went  on  down  the  road  to  the 
river.  She  hardly  knew  why  it  was  so,  but  she  was 
going  toward  a  certain  place  where  the  waters  met 
in  an  eddy  that  was  still  and  deep.  To  reach  it  she 
climbed  the  fence  over  which  Hartley  had  helped  her 
the  day  he  was  snake-bitten.  Her  heart  seemed  to 
rise  and  swell  in  her  throat.  She  lived  over  the  mo- 
ment in  which  she  had  stood  on  the  fence  hesitating, 
and  finally  rested  her  fingers  on  his  shoulders,  and, 
with  that  unforgetable  look  on  his  face,  he  had 
helped  her  down.  That  was  the  beginning,  she  told 
herself — the  beginning  of  life  to  her.  And  this  was 
the  end. 

She  was  whimpering  now  in  self-pity  as  she  sped 
237 


NOBODY'S 

on  through  the  weeds  and  briers  to  the  canebrake 
and  forged  her  way  through  it  to  the  river.  The 
deep,  darkling  pool  was  shaded  by  tall  trees  which 
shut  out  the  starlight.  The  water  purling  against 
the  sandy  shore  seemed  to  have  a  subtle  voice  of  its 
own,  a  solacing  murmur  which  promised  to  relieve 
her  of  her  weighty  burthen.  She  likened  the  stream 
to  the  arm  of  God  extended  to  embrace  her.  She 
told  herself  that  some  one  would  find  her  floating 
there  on  the  morrow.  Her  hair  would  be  loose  in 
the  clutch  of  the  current,  her  white  face  upturned 
with  a  smile.  She  was  going  to  try  to  smile  for 
Gordon's  sake,  for  she  was  sure  that  he  would  be 
grieved.  He  would  be  sorry  that  he  had  shown  his 
anger  at  what  she  could  not  help, and  when  he  learned 
that  the  convent,  which  she  had  hoped  for  as  a  last 
resort,  was  not  to  be  had  he  would  understand. 
Miss  Cynthia,  that  angel  of  a  woman,  who  had  been 
such  a  true  friend,  would  shed  tears  and  put  flowers 
on  her  coffin.  Then  they  would  lay  her  away  for- 
ever.    Her  strange,  short  history  would  be  ended. 

She  noticed  the  trunk  of  a  tree  leaning  out  over 
the  deepest  part  of  the  pool,  and  decided  that  she 
would  go  out  on  it,  swing  down  to  the  surface  of  the 
water,  and  drop.  She  was  moving  toward  it  when 
she  heard  a  sound  in  the  canebrake  behind  her,  and 
suddenly  Mam'  Ansie  emerged  and  stood  at  her  side. 

"No,  no,  Honey!"  she  panted,  "you  mustn't  t'ink 
er  dat.  My  Gawd,  you  mustn't!  I  was  ersleep.  I 
heard  Zeke  bark,  en  got  up  en  saw  you  goin'  off. 

238 


NOBODY'S 

I  des  hatter  come,  my  po'  lill  lamb.  No,  sweet  chile, 
yo'  ain't  gwine  fergit  what  de  Good  Book  done  say. 
You  must  put  yo'  trus'  in  Him  dat  is  on  high,  all- 
seein',  all-knowin',  en  never  shrink  fum  yo'  trial  en 
tribulation.  He  mus'  test  His  sheep,  but,  Honey, 
it  all  in  His  name  en  glory.  I  see  what  you  got  in 
yo'  mind,  but,  Honey,  dat  ain't  de  best  way.  You 
must  bear  up  lak  Job  did  in  'fliction.  De  Lawd  got 
His  kind  eye  on  you  dis  night,  en  He  gwine  stan'  by 
yo'  side  wid  His  mighty  arm  round  you." 

Celeste,  with  her  eyes  averted,  stood  wordless  and 
still.  There  was  a  log  behind  them,  and  Mam' 
Ansie  sank  to  a  seat  upon  it  and  drew  the  girl  down 
by  her  side.  With  a  sigh  of  resignation,  Celeste 
laid  her  head  in  the  big,  motherly  lap  and  sobbed. 

"Dat's  right,"  the  woman  said,  stroking  Celeste's 
hair  back  from  her  brow,  "lay  still  en  cry,  it  gwine 
ter  do  you  good.  I  been  prayin'  ever'  step  de  way 
heer,  en  now  de  Lawd  done  gi'  me  hope  en  light  in 
we-all's  darkness.  Now  don't  talk,  en  lay  still,  fer 
I'm  gwine  ter  pray,  fer  I  see  you  is  gittin'  in  er  mo' 
reconcile  way  alraidy." 

Then  with  her  broad  hand  on  the  head  of  the  girl, 
Mam'  Ansie  began  to  pray: 

"Lawd,  my  Gre't  Marster,  I  done  been  comin'  ter 
you  time  en  ergin  en  got  new  strength  ter  go  on  wid 
my  duty  en  keep  my  holy  vow  ter  de  daid  en  gone, 
but  dis  is  de  wuss  trial  yit.  My  po'  lill  lamb  is  got 
plumb  desprit,  en  suppin'  done  got  ter  happen. 
Bless  dis  new  projec'  she  got  in  'er  min',  en  mek  it 

239 


NOBODY'S 

redown  ter  Dy  glory  en  peace  en  good- will  to  all  men. 
Lawd,  be  wid  me  'n  her  bofe  now,  fer  Christ's  sake. 
Amen." 

"Honey,"  she  said  to  the  still  damp  face  in  her 
lap,  the  eyes  of  which  opened  inquiringly,  "you  say 
dis  yer  con — convent  you  want  ter  go  in  is  in  New 
Orleans?" 

Celeste  nodded  faintly,  but  that  was  all. 

"Well,  we  gwine  down  dar  in  de  fall  ter  'quire  into 
it.  En  ef  you  lak  it  atter  you  see  what  it  is,  I'll  be 
willin'.  I'll  have  de  money  raidy,  en  I'll  git  er  place 
nigh  you  ter  look  oveh  you.  I  mus'  do  dat,  you 
know,  kase  dat  is  my  duty  in  dis  life  clean  thoo  ter 
de  grave." 

Celeste  sat  up.     "Will  you  really  go?"  she  asked, 

"Yes,  I'll  tek  you,"  the  woman  answered.  "I  see 
now  suppin'  got  ter  be  done,  en  dey  begun  houndin' 
me  heer,  anyway." 

"Who  is,  Mammy?" 

"Never  you  min',  Honey.  I  can't  tell  you  'bout 
dat  yit  er  while,  but  I  will  some  day  mebby  when  de 
wuss  one  daid  en  in  de  groun',  en  de  sperits  quit 
walkin'  in  my  track  en  warnin'  me  uv  yo'  danger.  I 
wouldn't  er  got  up  when  de  dog  barked  ter-night  ef  I 
hadn't  heerd  er  rappin'  on  my  winder.  Seem  lak 
de  ha'nt  say,  'Run,  Mammy,  run!  Catch  'er!  Pull 
'er  back!'  Never  min\  I  know  which  one  dat  was. 
Now,  le's  go  home  en  go  ter  baid." 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

"  T~*\ID  those  negroes  keep  you  awake  last  night  ?" 

L-J  Colonel  Gorman  asked  his  nephew  the  next 
morning  at  breakfast. 

"No,  their  music  and  general  hubbub  seemed  to 
lull  me  to  sleep."  Hartley  smiled.  "It  is  so  long 
since  I've  heard  that  sort  of  thing  that  I  rather  like 
it.  The  very  planks  they  dance  on  seem  to  respond 
to  the  general  harmony.' ' 

The  Colonel  glanced  across  the  table  at  his  demure 
little  wife  and  inquired  solicitously  if  he  might  order 
another  cup  of  coffee  for  her. 

"No,  thank  you,  dear,"  she  returned.  "I  was 
just  looking  at  Gordon  and  thinking  about  what  you 
told  me  the  other  day." 

"What  was  that — something  about  me?"  Hartley 
spoke  up. 

"Oh  yes,"  the  Colonel  answered.  "I  was  telling 
her  about  your  trouble  with  those  mountain  men. 
Your  sister  and  I  kept  it  from  her  as  long  as  we 
could,  but  finally  the  inevitable  happened,  and  she 
heard  it  all  lopsided,  so  I  had  to  give  her  as  straight 
a  version  as  I  could." 

"Oh,  it  wasn't  a  serious  thing,"  Hartley  declared. 
241 


NOBODY'S 

"They  are  not  really  bad  men — that  is,  all  of  them 
are  not." 

"It  was  a  blame  sight  more  serious  than  you 
seemed  to  think  at  the  time,  young  man,"  Gorman 
affirmed.  "By-the-way,  you  have  made  a  stanch 
friend  of  old  Gid  Trawick.  I  met  him  at  the  store 
the  other  day,  and  he  talked  of  you  fairly  with  tears 
in  his  eyes.  He  went  over  the  whole  thing  from 
start  to  finish.  By-the-way,  they  have  literally  run 
Jeff  Daniels  out  of  the  country.  He  has  gone  to 
Oklahoma.  Trawick  said  he  had  told  hundreds  of 
lies  against  you,  literally  making  up  insults  which  he 
said  came  from  you — such  statements  as  that  half- 
breeds  were  the  actual  mental  superiors  to  the  low 
mountain  people,  and  that  the  poor  white  girls 
would  do  well  to  marry  negroes  with  property." 

1  •  Oh  yes,  I  thought  that  was  what  Jeff  was  saying." 
Hartley  frowned.  "I  knew  that  it  was  no  small 
thing  that  had  worked  the  mob  up  to  such  a  pitch." 

"Old  Trawick  said  he  never  saw  a  cooler  head  on 
a  man's  shoulders,"  the  Colonel  remarked,  admir- 
ingly. "According  to  him,  instead  of  being  scared, 
you  were  as  mad  as  a  hornet.  Then  he  said  your  rev- 
elation as  to  what  had  actuated  you  in  your  course 
fell  like  a  bomb.  The  whole  gang,  as  he  put  it,  felt 
like  crawling  into  a  hole  and  pulling  the  hole  in  after 
them.  I  must  confess,  too,  Gordon,  while  we  are  on 
the  subject,  that  I  was  surprised  at  what  he  says 
you  gave  as  your  reason  for — for  your  sister's  and 
your  interest  in  Celeste.     Of  course,  as  your  aunt 

242 


NOBODY'S 

knows,  the  girl  is  phenomenally  white,  pretty,  and 
bright — in  fact,  quite  clever,  but  still  without  actual 
proof—" 

"I  don't  care  to  discuss  it,  uncle."  Hartley  was 
waxing  wroth,  as  he  always  did  when  his  uncle  gave 
his  blunt  views  on  that  particular  subject.  "So  far, 
sister  and  I  have  no  absolute  proof,  but — but  we  re- 
spect Celeste  too  much  to — " 

"Why  is  it — oh,  why  is  it" — Mrs.  Gorman  raised 
her  small  hands  appealingly — "that  you  two  simply 
cannot  bring  this  thing  up  without  getting  angry?" 

"Oh,  I  only  want  him  and  Cynthia  not  to  make 
regular  fools  of  themselves  and  appear  ridiculous  in 
the  eyes  of  the  whole  community!"  the  Colonel 
snorted.  "Sentiment  over-indulged  is  simply  a 
form  of  morphinism — a  pipe-dream  that  never  ends, 
but  leads  to  absurdity  after  absurdity.  They  both 
mean  well,  but  what  about  putting  ideas  into  the 
poor  girl's  brain  that  will  produce  nothing  but 
despair?" 

1 '  We  have  not  spoken  to  her  of  our — hopes  in  her 
behalf."  Hartley  was  controlling  himself  with  dif- 
ficulty.    "And  we  do  not  intend  to  do  so." 

"But — but  great  God!" — the  Colonel  was  white 
with  fury — ' '  look  what  is  being  made  of  her !  Where 
on  earth  can  you  put  her  ?  The  taint  will  follow  her 
to  the  ends  of  the  earth.  She  has  developed  into  a 
lady  to  all  intents  and  purposes  as  refined  and  as 
delicately  nurtured  by  her  ignorant  mother  as  any 
gentlewoman  of  the  old  r6gime." 
17  243 


NOBODY'S 

"She  is  thinking  of  a  convent,  dear,"  mildly  put  in 
Mrs.  Gorman.  "Surely  she  will  not  be  so  very  un- 
fortunate when  you  realize  that  hundreds  of  wealthy, 
well-born  ladies  have  recourse  to  the  same  thing." 

"Oh,  is  she?  Well,  that  isn't  so  bad.  That  does 
her  credit,  I  am  sure.  I  didn't  know  that  she  had  it 
in  view.  Well,  that  is  a  solution,  and  it  ought  to  be 
encouraged.  That  is  another  proof  that  the  grandest 
Church  of  the  world  can  be  depended  on  when  all  else 
fails." 

Hartley  was  leaving  the  table  with  bows  of  apology 
to  his  aunt  when  she  stopped  him. 

"Where  are  you  going  to-day?"  she  asked. 

"To  Lowndesville,"  he  responded,  pressing  her 
hand.  "General  Lowndes  has  invited  me  to  dinner. 
I  shall  not  get  back  till  late  in  the  afternoon." 

1 '  How  funny !  you  and  that  queer,  surly  old  man, ' ' 
the  lady  smiled.  "They  say  he  doesn't  speak  to 
any  one  at  all — hates  the  whole  world.  Well,  he 
and  your  father  were  close  friends.  I  have  heard 
your  father  speak  of  him  in  New  York.  Your  father 
used  to  say  that  he  would  have  been  a  great  man  if 
trouble  hadn't  crushed  him.  He  did  brave  things 
during  the  war.  General  Lee  was  personally  very 
fond  of  him,  and  had  him  execute  some  important 
commissions." 

An  hour  later  Hartley  was  in  Elwood's  office. 
"I'm  glad  you  are  going  to  dine  with  the  General," 
the  lawyer  said,  on  greeting  him.  "He  is  as  pleased 
over  it  as  a  child  with  a  new  toy.    As  long  as  I  have 

244 


NOBODY'S 

known  him,  I've  never  been  inside  his  house.  We 
have  transacted  all  our  business  here.  It  surely  is 
a  lonely,  ramshackle  sort  of  place.  He  has  ordered 
out  the  old  carriage,  and  it  is  to  come  here  for  you 
at  eleven  o'clock.  You  may  pull  down  the  cur- 
tains if  you  don't  want  to  be  stared  at  as  at  a  bride, 
for  you  may  be  sure  the  town  will  wonder  and  the 
gossips  stare  their  eyes  out." 

Hartley  laughed.  ' '  It  will  be  quite  an  antiquated 
sort  of  a  lark,  won't  it?" 

"By  George,  old  man,  you  have  accomplished 
wonders.  You  have  been  a  sort  of  turning-point 
with  him.  He  has  thawed  out  remarkably  since 
his  talk  with  you.  He  seems  less  suspicious  of  man- 
kind and  more  generous  in  his  dealings.  I  was  about 
to  foreclose  a  mortgage  the  other  day  given  by  a 
poor  farmer  on  a  few  acres  of  land.  The  General 
had  laid  down  the  law,  and,  as  a  rule,  I  never  dare 
to  question  his  decisions.  The  farmer  was  here  in 
the  office,  his  wife  and  children  in  a  rickety  old 
wagon  at  the  door.  The  fellow  was  terribly  down 
in  the  mouth,  and  sat  here  on  the  point  of  crying, 
when  the  General  came  to  speak  to  me  about  an- 
other matter.  Not  a  word  was  spoken  between 
him  and  the  man,  but  I  saw  the  General  look  at  him 
curiously.     Then  he  called  me  into  the  back  room. 

'"Is  that  Spriggs?'  he  asked. 

"I  told  him  it  was. 

"'Is  that  his  family  out  there?'  was  his  next 
question. 

245 


NOBODY'S 

''I  told  him  yes,  and  saw  him  shrug  his  shoulders. 
He  stood  quite  still  for  several  minutes,  and  if  I 
ever  saw  two  opposite  natures  in  a  man  meet  and 
clash,  I  saw  it  there.  He  wouldn't  look  at  me,  his 
lips  quivered,  and  then  what  do  you  suppose  he 
said?  He  said:  'Wipe  it  all  out — give  it  to  him! 
Tell  him  I  wish  him  well!' " 

" Bully,  bully!"  Hartley  cried,  enthusiastically. 
"Now,  I  want  to  dine  with  him  worse  than  ever. 
The  divine  spark  is  not  dead." 

"I  won't  attempt  to  tell  you  what  happened  when 
I  went  to  that  farmer  and  told  him  what  I  was  or- 
dered to  do.  I've  seen  a  client  of  mine  pardoned  at 
the  last  minute  from  death  on  the  scaffold,  and 
never  witnessed  such  joy  as  showed  itself  in  that 
man.     He  broke  down  and  wept  like  a  child." 

After  this  the  two  friends  sat  silent  for  a  few 
moments,  then  Elwood  asked: 

"Have  you  turned  up  anything  in  that  other 
matter?" 

1 '  Nothing  at  all, "  Hartley  answered.  ' '  Have  you  ?' ' 

"Nothing  except  some  trivial  things  which  may 
or  may  not  have  significance.  The  other  day,  in 
looking  up  some  of  the  early  land  grants  to  the 
General's  grandfather,  and  going  over  a  lot  of  old 
wills  which  are  in  my  charge  for  safe-keeping,  I  ran 
across  the  name  of  Celeste.  It  was  put  down  as  the 
Christian  name  of  the  General's  grandmother." 

"Oh!"  Hartley  softly  muttered.  "And  what  does 
that  mean  to  you?" 

246 


NOBODY'S 

"Well,  I  admit  that  'Celeste'  is  such  an  unusual 
name  that  I  have  wondered  how  a  woman  like  Mam' 
Ansie  could  have  given  it  to  a  child  of  her  own,  and 
so  I  confess  that  I  was  staggered  to  find  it  on  the 
Lowndes  family  tree.  I  think  it  looks  a  little  like 
Dorothy  Lowndes,  at  least,  had  something  to  do 
with  the  naming  of  the  child." 

''It  certainly  does,"  Hartley  agreed,  eagerly. 

"Then,  on  the  other  hand,  of  course,"  El  wood 
advanced,  reluctantly,  "  if  the  theory  could  possibly 
be  true  that — that  Celeste  is  the  daughter  of  Cary 
Lowndes,  his  sister  might,  you  see — ?" 

"We  shall  throw  all  that  out  of  consideration — 
absolutely  out!"  Hartley  cried,  firmly. 

"Yes,  and  I  did,"  Elwood  said,  "and  so  to  me, 
at  least,  the  name  has  some  real  significance.  I 
think  that  Dorothy  Lowndes  named  her  child  and 
purposely  introduced  one  that  belonged  to  the 
family.     I  have  no  proof  of  it,  but  I  think  so." 

Hartley  beamed.  "We'll  never  establish  the 
truth  if  we  don't  aim  straight  at  what  we  want 
and  stick  to  it.     I  am  more  positive  than  ever." 

"Another  little  thing  in  our  favor  is  this  " — Elwood 
smiled  hopefully — "in  the  first  place,  I  may  as  well 
tell  you  that  I  am  working  constantly  on  this  case. 
It  sticks  to  me.  I  can't  get  away  from  it.  I  lie 
awake  at  night  thinking,  thinking,  and  now  and 
then  an  idea  pops  into  my  head  that  sticks  like  a 
brush  in  a  dry  glue-pot.  The  other  night  the  thought 
came  to  me  to  try  to  ferret  out  what  became  of  the 

247 


NOBODY'S 

missing  money  the  General  claims  his  daughter  gave 
to  her  lover." 

"And  a  splendid  plan!"  Hartley  cried.  "How 
did  you  go  about  it?" 

"Why,  I  went  straight  to  the  bank  where  the 
money  was  deposited.  You  see,  as  the  General's 
attorney  and  manager  of  his  affairs,  I  was  given 
free  access  to  the  records,  and  old  dusty  ledgers  were 
pulled  out  of  the  vault  that  had  not  seen  daylight 
for  a  score  of  years.  Well,  to  make  a  long  story 
short,  Wilson,  the  oldest  clerk  in  the  bank,  not 
only  showed  me  that  Dorothy  Lowndes  drew  the 
money  out  personally,  but  at  the  same  time  she 
took  away  the  family  jewels,  which  had  been  left 
there  for  safe-keeping.  Wilson  remembered  the 
exact  day.  Heavily  veiled,  Dorothy  had  driven  up 
in  a  carriage  and  gone  in  and  transacted  the  busi- 
ness and  went  back  to  the  plantation.  Wilson  re- 
membered it  well  because  she  so  seldom  came  in  town. 
According  to  actual  dates,  Gordon,  that  was  only  a 
month  before  the  poor  lady  died.  Wilson  said  the 
marks  of  death  were  even  then  on  her  face.  She 
was  thin  and  white,  and  could  scarcely  speak  above 
a  whisper,  and  he  had  to  help  her  into  the  carriage." 

"That  certainly  proves  that  Martin  Rawson  did 
not  get  the  money,  as  he  had  been  dead  several 
months,"  Hartley  cried,  under  his  breath,  restrain- 
ing his  excitement  with  difficulty. 

"It  proves  more  than  that,  old  man,"  Elwood  said, 
the  gleam  of  a  detective's  pride  in  his  eye.     "Listen 

248 


NOBODY'S 

and  follow  me  closely.  From  what  you  say  Pomp 
told  you  of  the  death  of  Dorothy  Lowndes,  she  was 
evidently  fond  of  the  baby.  I  have  absolute  proof 
that  Mam'  Ansie  got  the  money,  and  am  sure  that 
Dorothy  left  it  and  the  jewels  for  the  use  of  the 
child.  I'll  speak  of  that  proof  later.  What  I  want 
to  show  you  now  is  my  reason  for  believing  Dorothy 
was  the  mother.  I  am  basing  my  confidence  of  the 
fact  on  human  nature,  pure  and  simple.  Persons 
have  declared  that  young  Cary  Lowndes  was  the 
father,  owing  to  the  resemblance  Celeste  bears  to  his 
family,  but  my  opinion  is  based  on  the  belief  that  a 
woman  like  Dorothy  would  not  love  the  child  of 
even  a  brother  who  had  killed  the  man  she  wor- 
shiped, as  she  certainly  did  worship  her  lover." 

"That  seems  very,  very  reasonable,"  Hartley  agreed. 

"You'll  think  it  more  so  when  I  tell  you  I  have 
proof  that  Dorothy,  down  to  the  day  of  her  death, 
hated  even  the  memory  of  her  brother." 

"Good!  good!  bully!  How  did  you  discover  that, 
Elwood?" 

"From  old  Wilson.  He  told  me  that  he  ventured 
to  offer  Dorothy  his  sympathy  over  the  death  of 
Cary  that  day  in  the  bank.  He  said  she  pushed  back 
her  black  veil  for  the  first  time,  and  glared  at  him 
fiercely,  and  stamped  her  foot.  'He  was  a  mur- 
derer, a  low,  sneaking,  red-handed  murderer!'  she 
fairly  screamed.  'Don't  mention  his  name  to  me. 
I  hate  him — I  hate  him !  If  he  were  alive  to-day  I'd 
cut  his  throat.' " 

249 


NOBODY'S 

' ' Remarkable !' '  Hartley  panted.  ' 'You  are  right ; 
such  a  woman  as  that  would  not  worry  about  the 
future  of  such  a  brother's  child,  especially  if  she 
thought  the  child's  mother  was  colored.  That  com- 
pletely explodes  the  theory  that  she  provided  for 
the  child  out  of  remorse  for  causing  her  brother's 
death,  for  she  had  no  remorse.  In  fact,  it  would 
have  been  unnatural  for  her  to  have  cared  for  Celeste 
at  all." 

''Right  you  are,  Gordon.  Now,  how  do  I  know 
positively  that  Mam'  Ansie  got  the  money,  and  has 
part  of  it  even  now?  Why,  this  same  Wilson  says 
that  Mam'  Ansie,  not  more  than  a  month  ago,  asked 
him  to  change  a  twenty-dollar  bill.  He  noticed  its 
ancient  look  and  date.  The  date  was  twenty  years 
back,  and  money  like  that,  you  know,  has  long  since 
been  called  in,  and  other  bills  put  in  their  place. 
Then  as  to  the  jewels.  That  Ansie  has  them  hidden 
somewhere  I  am  sure,  for  they  must  have  been  kept 
with  the  money,  and  if  she  had  sold  them  or  at- 
tempted to  sell  them  she  would  have  been  detected. 
Nobody  here  in  town  would  buy  diamonds  and  pearls 
from  a  negro  woman,  and  Ansie  has  never  been 
farther  away  from  the  plantation  than  this.  Be- 
sides, she  wouldn't  sell  them  till  the  cash  was  ex- 
hausted, and  some  of  it  is  still  left." 

"We  are  certainly  narrowing  the  thing  down." 
Hartley  rubbed  his  hands,  and  a  grateful  light  shone 
in  his  face. 

"Yes,  yes,  but,  above  all,  don't  mention  it  to 
250 


NOBODY'S 

Celeste,"  Elwood  warned  him.  "It  might  get  to 
Mam'  Ansie,  and  she  is  our  main  witness.  If  we  fail 
to  bring  her  to  time  we  are  lost,  and  if  Celeste  were 
to  hint  at  our  plans  Ansie  would  close  her  lips  tighter 
than  ever,  for  she  is  mortally  afraid  of  General 
Lowndes — afraid  of  his  fury  if  he  should  discover  the 
truth.  If  only  we  could  bring  the  matter  to  his  at- 
tention, and  get  him  to  soften  up  a  little — but  how 
could  we  ?  How  could  we  even  hint  at  such  a  thing  ? 
It  would  kill  him.  His  pride  could  never  stand 
that." 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

THAT  remark  returned  quite  forcibly  to  Hartley 
as,  a  little  later,  he  and  the  General  sat  over  their 
wine  and  cigars  in  the  dining-room  of  the  old  house 
down  the  main  residential  street  of  the  town,  whith- 
er the  rumbling  ante-bellum  carriage  had  borne  him. 

"A  man's  enemies  can  be  more  than  cruel  when 
they  wish"  the  General  said,  with  a  sigh  which 
betrayed  more  of  a  confidential  mood  than  often 
rested  on  the  old  gentleman.  "People,  of  course, 
don't  repeat  many  of  the  disagreeable  things  to  me 
that  go  the  rounds  here,  where  food  for  gossip  is  as 
scarce  as  coffee  was  during  the  war,  but  some  of  the 
most  heartless  thrusts  leak  through.  I've  stood  a 
lot— a  lot!" 

"I  presume  you  have,"  Hartley  responded,  sympa- 
thetically. He  felt  his  heart  go  out  to  the  man  who 
he  told  himself  was  the  grandfather  of  the  girl  he 
loved.  There  was  something  in  the  filbert-shaped 
nails  of  the  slender  fingers,  in  the  curves  of  the  proud 
lips,  the  firm  Grecian  nose,  the  broad,  high  brow,  the 
poise  of  the  head  on  the  unbending  shoulders,  that 
bespoke  blood  relationship  which  was  too  pronounced 
to  be  overlooked  by  a  searcher  for  resemblances  as 
eager  as  Hartley  found  himself  to  be. 

252 


NOBODY'S 

1 '  But  the  worst  of  all,  the  very  worst —  "  General 
Lowndes  paused  and  looked  apologetically  into  the 
rapt  countenance  before  him.  "I  forget  myself, 
Gordon,"  he  went  on,  tremulously.  "I  must  be  los- 
ing some  of  my  faculties.  I  keep  imagining  that  you 
are  your  father,  and  that  he  and  I  are  having  one  of 
our  old  confidential  talks,  which  we  so  often  did 
when  we  were  young  men.  I  was  going  to  say  that 
the  worst  thing  of  all  to  bear  in  silence  was  the 
damnable  lie  they  circulated  against  my  dear,  brave 
boy's  moral  character.  Perhaps  I  need  not  call  the 
thing  by  name.  You  have  perhaps  been  here  long 
enough  to  have  heard  what  they  said  of  him." 

"Yes,  yes,"  Hartley  said,  reluctantly.  "I  think 
I  know  what  you  refer  to." 

The  face  of  the  old  man  was  rigid  and  grave,  his 
lips  quivered,  and  he  applied  his  napkin  to  them 
before  resuming. 

"If  there  was  anything  on  earth  that  I  could  pos- 
sibly do  to  convince  them  I  would  not  take  it  so 
hard,  but  the  more  I  deny  it  the  stronger  they  be- 
lieve it.  The  resemblance  of — of — the  offspring  to 
my  family!  Ha!  rubbish!  rubbish!  filth  and  slime ! 
You  see,  I  alone  know  how  utterly  absurd  the  charge 
is.  They  slander  the  helpless  dead.  I  have  never 
seen  the  girl,  and  never  shall,  of  my  own  volition, 
but  she  cannot  resemble  my  family  as  they  say.  If 
she  looks  like  my  wife  and  daughter,  as  they  say,  it 
is  an  accident.  Gordon,  Cary  and  I  were  as  open  and 
free  with  each  other  as  two  boy  chums.     If  he  had 

253 


NOBODY'S 

been  like  that  I  would  have  discovered  it,  for  he  hid 
nothing  from  me.  I've  heard  him  speak  with  utter 
contempt  of  men  of  the  stamp  they  say  he  was.  I've 
seen  him  refuse  to  meet  men  of  that  ilk  who  were 
generally  received  here.  He  never  allowed  such 
scabs  of  civilization  to  enter  our  door  out  there  at 
the  old  home,  or  to  meet  his  sister  anywhere.  And 
to  think  now,  after  all  these  years,  that  a  girl  is 
actually  growing  up  who  is  pointed  at  by  hundreds 
as  his  child!  Great  God,  my  boy,  that  makes  me 
want  to  grab  mankind,  as  a  whole,  by  the  throat  and 
throttle  it.  God  Himself  is  unfair.  Why  brand  the 
innocent  dead  with  a  stigma  like  that?  My  poor 
boy  gave  his  life  for  my  honor  and  I  sit  here  helpless 
to  do  him  the  simple  justice  of  clearing  his  name  from 
a  scandal  which  would  have  made  his  blood  boil. 
Pardon  me,  Gordon,  I  have  gone  too  far,  I — " 
But,  with  his  napkin  over  his  face,  a  strong  man, 
turned  weak  as  a  woman,  was  sobbing  without  re- 
straint. 

"His  name  will  be  cleared  some  day."  Hartley's 
heart  bounded  over  the  truth  of  his  prophecy. 
His  hot  impulse  was  leading  him  further,  but  he 
checked  himself,  and  kept  silence.  There  were  many 
things  clamoring  to  be  heard  from  the  clashing 
forces  within  him,  and  yet  no  one  of  them  would 
be  admissible  to  a  situation  so  delicate.  The  young 
man  groaned  inwardly.  He  was  in  an  agony  of  in- 
decision. There  was  a  cause  he  wanted  to  plead, 
the  cause  of  a  living,  palpitating,  suffering  woman, 

254 


NOBODY'S 

beside  whose  interests  a  dead  man's  honor,  a  living 
man's  grief,  were  of  no  consequence  at  all. 

"I  thank  God  for  the  chance  to  hear  you  say  it," 
the  old  man  sobbed,  as  he  dried  his  reddening  eyes. 
1 '  It  may  come.  The  woman  herself  may  do  him  the 
justice  to  give  it  the  lie.  I  might  have  induced  her 
to  do  it  before  this  had  I  not  hated  the  sight  of  her 
so,  for  all  she  has  done  against  me  and  mine.  The 
hussy  dares  not  look  me  in  the  eye.  She  ducks 
her  head  and  runs  at  the  bare  sight  of  me.  She 
knows  the  lie  is  floating  about,  and  could  deny  it 
if  she  would  take  the  trouble.  But  enough  of  this. 
I  am  ashamed  to  have  invited  you  here  as  my  only 
guest  for  years  and  gone  into  all  this." 

"I  am  honestly  glad  you  have  spoken  so  freely," 
Hartley  said.  "The  friends  of  the  poor  girl,  and 
she  has  a  few  ardent  ones,  must  look  further  to  find 
her  father." 

"You  say  she  has  friends?"  The  General  stared 
questioningly.     "Do  you  mean  white  people?" 

Hartley  nodded.  He  felt  as  if  he  stood  on  the 
brink  of  a  precipice  facing  the  cool  breezes  from 
the  depths  of  disaster  below. 

"White  people — respectable  white  people?"  the 
old  man  repeated,  almost  incredulously. 

Again  the  younger  nodded.  "My  sister,  for  one 
— perhaps  the  most  helpful  of  all;   then  myself." 

"You?"  The  note  of  incredulity  climbed  higher, 
the  lids  of  the  old  eyes  were  drawn  together  till  they 
appeared  like  narrow  red  slits  fringed  with  straight, 

255 


NOBODY'S 

gray  hairs.  A  storm  of  revelation  brooded  over 
Hartley.  Elwood's  warning  came  to  him  like  words 
written  in  letters  of  fire  on  a  dark  wall.  Then  came 
a  subterfuge. 
'  "She  saved  my  life — I  am  very  grateful."  Then 
in  a  full,  calm  voice  Hartley  recounted  that  ex- 
perience in  careful  detail. 

"Ah,  I  see,  of  course — now  I  understand.  You 
mystified  me  at  first.  It  must  have  been  your  tone, 
the  queer  look  in  your  eyes.  Of  course,  of  course, 
a  gentleman  could  not  easily  forget  a  service  like 
that  even  from  the  humblest.  But  you  say  Miss 
Hartley,  your  sister — " 

"Became  deeply  interested  in  her  when  she  first 
moved  to  Fairview.     She  found  Celeste — " 

"Yes,  Celeste!"  the  General  broke  in  with  a 
snarl  of  anger.  "The  black  hussy  had  the  cheek 
to  name  her  child  after  my  own  mother — another 
damnable  piece  of  impudence.  But  pardon  me,  you 
were  saying — " 

"My  sister  found  the  poor  girl  to  be  very  bright 
and  clever.  She  has  talent  for  music  and  art,  and 
a  capacity  for  suffering  over  her  condition  unsur- 
passed by  any  human  being  I  ever  met.  There  is 
no  need  of  my  going  further,  General,"  Hartley 
concluded.  "If  you  haven't  seen  the  girl  you 
can  form  no  adequate  idea  of  her  personality  or  her 
deplorable  condition." 

General  Lowndes  smiled  in  a  colorless  way  and 
nervously  fingered  the  stem  of  his  wine-glass.     "I 

256 


NOBODY'S 

see  we  are  in  deep  water,"  he  said,  lamely.  M Try- 
as  I  can  to  be  interested  in  a  person  who  saved  the 
life  of  my  best  friend's  son,  I  feel  it  impossible, 
knowing  what  I  do  of  her  antecedents.  Now,  come 
into  the  other  room.  I've  laid  out  some  intimate 
letters  written  by  your  father.  I  want  you  to  read 
them." 

At  the  door,  as  they  were  going  out,  he  tenderly 
laid  his  hand  on  Hartley's  arm.  " You've  taken  a 
load  off  of  my  mind,"  he  said,  feelingly.  "You 
have,  indeed!     And  I  am  most  grateful  and  glad." 

Hartley  failed  to  comprehend,  and  gave  him  his 
eyes  in  a  gentle  stare  of  perplexity. 

"Why,  in  believing  as  I  do  about  my  poor  boy," 
was  the  General's  prompt  explanation,  "it  is  sooth- 
ing to  find  one  person,  at  least,  who  is  willing  to 
be  just  and  won't  condemn  without  evidence.  I 
mentioned  it  to  Elwood  once,  hoping  to  get  his 
sympathy,  but  even  he  had  nothing  to  say.  He 
sat  dumb  as  a  post  till  I'd  finished." 

"I  certainly  believe  as  you  do  about  that,"  Hart- 
ley said,  evasively.  His  manner  was  constrained, 
and  he  avoided  the  gentle  old  eyes  which  were  bear- 
ing down  on  him  so  pathetically. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

ONE  morning  shortly  after  this,  Hartley  had 
been  chatting  with  his  uncle  and  aunt  in  the 
parlor,  when,  happening  to  look  from  a  window,  he 
saw  his  sister  dismounting  from  her  favorite  horse 
on  the  drive  in  front.  He  went  out  and  joined  her 
on  the  lawn  as  Pomp  was  leading  the  horse  away. 

"What  do  you  think  has  happened?"  she  asked, 
playfully,  her  face  lighting  up  as  from  some  un- 
usual cause. 

"Can't  imagine,"  he  threw  back,  in  the  same 
mood. 

"Guess,"  she  said,  tapping  his  shoulder  with  her 
riding- whip. 

"Not  good  at  that,  either,"  he  said.  "You'd  as 
well  tell  me.  You  are  dying  to  let  it  out,  whatever 
it  is?" 

"The  old  Lowndes  home  is  occupied."  She  was 
watching  him  eagerly,  a  merry  sparkle  in  her  eyes. 
"The  windows  are  all  open;  the  lawn  is  being 
mowed  down ;  the  walks  cleaned ;  painters  and  car- 
penters are  daubing  and  hammering  like  mad 
things.  A  wagon  -  load  of  bedding  and  trunks  was 
being  put  in.  The  place  is  as  busy  as  a  beehive 
on  a  swarming-day." 

258 


NOBODY'S 

"Some  one  has  rented  it — or  the  place  has  been 
sold." 

"Neither;  the  end  of  the  world  has  come.  Gen- 
eral Lowndes  was  smoking  on  the  front  veranda  as 
cool  as  a  cucumber.     He  is  going  to  be  our  neighbor. ' ' 

Hartley  stared  in  astonishment.  Then  he  pondered 
in  silence  for  a  while,  and  ended  by  asking,  abruptly : 

"What  do  you  make  of  it,  Sis?" 

"Nothing,  so  far,  but  I  know  what  is  coming.  I 
feel  the  very  hand  of  God  in  it  all.  General  Lowndes 
will  see  Celeste  and  like  her  looks.  He'll  meet  Mam' 
Ansie.  She  will  find  that  he  is  not  so  dreadful,  after 
all,  and  she  will  finally  confess  the  whole  thing  and 
save  that  poor  child." 

Hartley  beamed  on  her.  His  eyes  fairly  danced. 
His  face  flushed  red.  Then  his  sister,  in  a  more 
serious  mood,  held  up  a  warning  finger  and  added: 

"Provided—" 

"Provided  what?"  he  repeated,  his  face  falling. 

"Provided  Mam'  Ansie  doesn't  run  away  in  the 
night,  taking  Celeste  with  her." 

"Oh,  you  think  she  might?" 

"She  has  already  laid  some  plans,  you  know," 
Miss  Hartley  said.  "She  has  sent  inquiries  to  New 
Orleans  in  regard  to  that  convent.  Celeste  has 
exacted  a  promise  from  her  to  be  taken  very  soon." 

"That's  bad,  very  bad,"  Hartley  declared,  gloom- 
ily.    ' '  When  have  you  seen  Celeste  ?" 

"Yesterday,  I  went  to  see  her.  She  can't  be  in- 
duced to  come  here  now.     I  have  tried  very  hard  to 

18  259 


NOBODY'S 

tempt  her  to  resume  her  reading  in  the  library,  but 
she  only  says  she  is  busy  doing  water-color  sketching, 
and  she  is.  She  goes  up  to  her  favorite  nook  on  the 
cliff  whenever  the  weather  is  good.  I  was  up  there 
with  her  the  other  day.  It  is  a  most  dangerous  spot, 
and  she  will  sit  on  the  very  edge  of  the  rock.  She 
showed  me  several  finished  views  of  the  valley.  She 
has  improved  wonderfully.  I  tried  to  get  the  con- 
vent idea  out  of  her  head,  but  I  had  to  stop  talking 
against  it,  for  I  see  she  has  set  her  heart  on  it.  Once, 
when  I  was  advancing  all  sorts  of  objections,  she 
suddenly  said : 

"'But  if  I  don't  go,  really  what  is  to  become  of 
me  V  And  there  I  sat  absolutely  unable  to  make  any 
sort  of  reply.  I  saw  what  she  was  thinking.  She 
smiled  sadly,  and  touched  my  hand  with  hers  in  such 
a  pathetic  little  gesture.  'You  see/  she  said,  'you 
have  not  looked  ahead  as  I  have.  You  have  not  in- 
vestigated my  case  thoroughly;  you  are  too  kind 
to  look  the  inevitable  in  the  face.'  She  spoke  of 
that  awful  book  on  the  race  question,  and  asked  me, 
as  she  has  so  often  done,  why  I  had  not  read  it.  I 
had  to  say  it  was  because  I  thought  it  was  too  heart- 
less, too  hopeless,  too  morbid,  that  I  didn't  intend 
ever  to  read  it,  and  that  I  was  sorry  I  had  been  the 
innocent  cause  of  her  seeing  it. 

"She  smiled  sadly  as  I  was  speaking,  and  that 
sweet  mouth  of  hers  drew  down  at  the  corners  so 
like  a  grieving  child's,  and  with  a  wise  little  shake 
of  the  head  she  said : 

260 


NOBODY'S 

'"But  it  is  the  truth,  the  whole  truth,  and  there  is 
no  avoiding  it.  Fate  must  have  put  it  in  my  way  to 
keep  me  from  being  vain  and  wanting  things  that  are 
beyond  me  forever.'  Then  she  talked  of  the  con- 
vent again,  and  as  I  listened  my  heart  almost  went 
out  of  me  in  pity.  I  am  only  a  woman,  brother,  and 
I  have  suffered  actual  torture  over  that  poor  child's 
condition.  Once  that  day  I  became  almost  desper- 
ate ;  indeed,  it  was  all  I  could  do  to  keep  from  blurt- 
ing out  what  you  and  I  hope.  It  was  when  Mam' 
Ansie  was  telling  me  about  her  silly  'ha'nts'  and 
rappings,  and  hinting  at  the  murderous  designs  of 
her  old  master.  I  wanted  to  clutch  her^  by  the 
throat  and  jerk  some  reason  into  her.  But  I  realize 
that  such  a  course  would  only  make  a  bad  matter 
worse,  and  I  had  to  nod  and  smile  and  humor  her." 
Miss  Hartley  was  looking  down  the  drive  leading 
to  the  main  road.  "Isn't  that  man  on  horseback 
Mr.  Elwood?" 

1 '  I  think  it  is, ' '  Hartley  responded .  ' '  He' s  coming 
here.     I'll  go  meet  him." 

"Hello!"  the  lawyer  cried,  as  he  reined  his  horse  in 
just  beyond  the  fence,  "I  reckon  you've  heard  the 
news?" 

"About  the  General?  Yes.  Queer  move,  isn't 
it?" 

"Knocked  me  flatter  than  a  deadfall."  Elwood 
smiled.  "He's  been  doing  all  sorts  of  things  of  late 
that  are  strange  in  him.  He's  on  speaking  terms 
now  with  men  and  women  he  hasn't  glanced  at  for 

261 


NOBODY'S 

years — quit  pressing  his  tenants  for  rent,  and  low- 
ered it  and  his  rate  of  interest  in  scores  of  cases. 
You  may  not  be  the  entire  cause  of  it,  but  you  are 
the  pivot  on  which  he  is  turning.  He  seems  to  look 
on  you  as  a  sort  of  reincarnation  of  your  father.  He 
is  always  saying  you  are  exactly  like  him.  He  told 
me  he  had  offered  to  back  you  in  any  enterprise  you 
chose,  but  that,  like  your  father,  you  would  accept 
help  from  no  one.  It  was  then  that  he  let  the  chief 
cat  out  of  the  bag." 

'  'What  was  that?"  Hartley  asked. 

"Why,  I  don't  know  as  I  have  any  right  to  speak 
to  you,  being  his  sole  legal  representative,  but  he 
wouldn't  care.  Old  chap,  it  wouldn't  surprise  me 
any  day  to  hear  him  order  me  to  make  out  a  will 
in  which  he  left  you  a  big  slice  of  his  estate.  He 
is  all  the  more  bent  on  it  because  of  your  curt  refusal, 
and  because  your  father  aided  him  so  substantially." 

"I  really  don't  want  his  money."  Hartley 
frowned.  "I  am  not  in  the  mood  for  accepting 
gifts  from  him.  I  feel  that  he  and  I  may  clash  one 
of  these  days  in  a  way  that  would  make  him  my 
enemy  for  life.  I  may  be  forced  to  talk  straight 
to  him,  and  I  don't  want  to  be  in  his  debt.  I  don't 
believe  Mam'  Ansie  will  ever  open  her  lips  with  the 
truth  till  he  removes  her  fear  of  him." 

"Good  God,  old  man,  you  wouldn't  dream  of — of 
going  to  him  with  a  proposal  like  that?" 

1 '  I'll  have  to,  if  all  else  fails.  That  poor  child  shall 
not  suffer  much  longer  as  she  is  suffering.     I  firmly 

262 


NOBODY'S 

believe  that  if  Mam'  Ansie  were  not  so  much  afraid 
of  him  she  might  be  induced  to  speak  the  truth,  and 
Celeste  would  be  happy  and  free  as  she  deserves. 
No,  I  won't  have  his  money.  You  may  tell  him  so, 
with  my  compliments,  if  you  wish.  I  want  only  one 
thing  from  him,  and  I'll  have  it  if  it  doesn't  come 
from  some  other  source." 

"It  is  a  ticklish  proposition,"  Elwood  declared. 
"He  has  softened  up  a  little  toward  the  world,  but 
explode  a  bomb  like  that  under  him  and  he  will  go 
stark,  staring  mad.  You'd  have  to  kill  him  or  he 
would  kill  you." 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

TWO  days  after  this  Celeste  was  gathering  flow- 
ers in  the  meadow  near  the  river.  She  had 
secured  also  some  of  the  most  delicate  species  of 
maidenhair-fern,  and,  in  the  dampest,  coolest  nooks, 
she  had  found  some  belated  violets.  She  had  her 
arms  well  filled  and  was  making  her  way  homeward 
along  a  narrow,  seldom-used  path  worn  more  by 
the  hoofs  of  cattle  and  sheep  than  by  human  feet. 
Her  pretty  straw  hat  rested  on  the  back  part  of  her 
head  and  was  tied  under  her  pink  chin  by  flowing 
ribbons  as  crisp  and  fresh  as  if  they  had  just  come 
from  a  milliner's  bandbox.  Her  beautiful  hair  hung 
in  golden  wisps  down  the  sides  of  her  face.  She 
was  looking  at  the  path  and  failed  to  notice  the 
slow  and  all  but  tottering  approach  of  an  old  gentle- 
man in  conventional  attire — silk  top-hat,  black 
frock-coat,  high  shirt-collar,  and  simple  black  tie. 
With  his  gold -headed  ebony  cane  he  was  pushing 
the  vines  and  briers  out  of  the  way,  and  did  not 
notice  Celeste  till  they  had  met  face  to  face. 

She  saw  him  start  and  stare,  and  then  heard  him 
utter  a  sharp  little  cry.  She  was  stepping  out  of  his 
way  when  he  suddenly  reached  out  and  caught  her 
by  the  arm. 

264 


NOBODY'S 

" Wait!"  he  cried.  "For  God's  sake,  wait!"  And 
as  he  still  clutched  her  arm,  he  stared  wildly  into  her 
face.  She  saw  his  alarmed  eyes  taking  in  her  every 
feature.  He  panted  audibly  as  he  took  a  wisp  of  her 
hair  in  his  hand  and  fumbled  it  in  his  fingers.  He 
dropped  it,  and  grasped  her  hand.  He  gazed  at  it. 
He  pushed  her  flowing  sleeves  beyond  the  elbow  and 
inspected  her  delicate  wrist  and  arm.  Then,  his  eyes 
fixed  rigidly  on  hers,  she  saw  him  gasping  for  breath. 
A  greenish  pallor  spread  over  his  face,  and,  uncon- 
sciously clutching  her  arm  for  support,  he  sank  to  the 
ground  in  a  faint.  Acting  quickly  and  calmly,  as  was 
her  nature  in  all  emergencies,  Celeste  dropped  her 
flowers  and  unfastened  the  old  man's  necktie  and 
unbuttoned  his  shirt  in  front.  Then,  glancing  in  all 
directions  and  seeing  no  help  near,  she  sat  down  in 
the  path  and  raised  the  old  gray  head  to  her  lap. 
Laying  her  hand  on  the  region  of  the  heart,  she  felt 
it  still  pulsating,  and  now,  more  hopeful  of  the  out- 
come, she  sat  stroking  the  gray  hair  back  from  the 
damp,  white  brow.  Presently  she  saw  that  he  was 
reviving.  The  dead  whiteness  of  his  skin  began  to 
glow  faintly.  Then  he  opened  his  eyes  and  looked 
up  into  hers  with  the  inquiring  stare  of  one  awaken- 
ing from  a  dream. 

' '  Don't  move  yet,"  she  said,  soothingly ;  ' ' you  will 
be  all  right  in  a  moment;  you  fainted — that's  all. 
The  heat  was  too  much  for  you." 

With  this  she  took  off  her  hat  and  held  it  between 
him  and  the  sun. 

265 


NOBODY'S 

The  old  head  lay  still.  There  was  a  strange, 
wistful  look  in  the  wide-open  eyes. 

"Thank  you — thank  you,"  he  murmured,  "you 
are  very  kind."  He  closed  his  eyes  and  sighed  like 
a  sleeping  child.  A  peaceful,  restful  expression 
crept  into  his  face.  It  might  have  been  likened  to 
the  unreadable  smile  that  is  said  to  dawn  on  the 
visages  of  the  dead,  save  that  his  had  the  pink  glow 
of  a  vitality  not  yet  quenched.  She  wondered  if  he 
were  asleep.  Indeed,  she  felt  oddly  drawn  to  him; 
the  womanliness  in  her  nature  went  out  in  a  subtle 
flood  to  his  helplessness.  She  still  stroked  his  brow 
with  her  velvet  fingers,  and  uttered  soft,  soothing 
things  as  she  might  have  done  to  her  dolls  a  year 
or  so  ago,  before  her  grim  awakening  to  the  realiza- 
tion of  life,  love,  and  death. 

Presently  he  opened  his  eyes  again  and  made  a 
movement  as  if  to  sit  up. 

"Are  you  sure  you  feel  strong  enough  ?"  she  asked, 
her  tone  never  more  sweetly  musical,  as  she  gently 
raised  his  head. 

"My  God!  the  voice — the  voice!"  she  heard  him 
cry,  and  she  wondered  if  his  mind  were  wandering. 
She  had  heard  of  sunstroke  affecting  the  brain,  and 
she  was  gravely  concerned,  more  gravely  now  than 
before.     He  sat  up;   he  stared  straight  at  her. 

"Will  you  kindly  tell  me  who  you  are — to  whom 
I'm  indebted?"  He  was  trying  to  stand,  and  she 
rose  and  put  her  arm  under  one  of  his  and  helped 
him  up.     He  repeated  his  question,  even  more  in- 

266 


NOBODY'S 

sistently,  as  he  still  allowed  her  firm  hand  to  hold 
to  his  arm. 

"Celeste,"  she  said.     "Mam'  Ansie's  daughter." 

The  fixed  stare  in  his  eyes  wavered;  the  pallor 
returned;  he  gasped,  reeled,  and  was  about  to  fall, 
but  she  steadied  him. 

"Won't  you  sit  down  again?"  she  gently  pleaded. 
"There  is  a  little  spring  down  there  and  a  gourd 
dipper.  Let  me  bring  you  some  cool  water.  It 
will  revive  you." 

She  thought  from  his  looks,  as  he  sat  down  again, 
that  he  was  on  the  verge  of  another  collapse;  but 
he  sat  erect,  watching  her  with  that  unreadable 
glare  in  the  eyes  as  she  hurried  away. 

"My  God,  they  have  told  the  truth!"  the  old  man 
groaned.  "She  is  my  poor  boy's  child.  Perhaps 
he  would  have  told  me  if  he  had  lived  long  enough. 
He  must  have  been  terribly  tempted,  and  all  at 
once.  Yes,  she  is  his  daughter,  and  she  is  beauti- 
ful, beautiful,  and  sweet  and  gentle!  I  am  her 
grandfather.  In  the  sight  of  God  above,  who  made 
us  both,  I'm  her  grandfather.  If  poor  Cary  had 
lived  he  would  have  been  proud  of  her.  He  would 
have  loved  her.  Oh,  what  does  it  mean?  What 
can  it  mean?  She  admits  she  is  tainted,  and  yet 
she  can't  be — she  couldn't  look  like  that,  talk  like 
that,  be  like  that  if  she  were.  A  miracle  has  been 
performed,  and  for  what  purpose — what  purpose? 
Oh,  I  must  hear  her  speak  again.  I  must  look  at 
her  once  more.     She  is  the  living  image  of  my  poor 

267 


NOBODY'S 

wife  when  I  first  saw  her.     My  heart,  my  heart  is 
breaking!     Lord,  Lord,  have  pity — have  mercy!" 

Celeste  was  hastening  toward  him,  the  gourd  dip- 
per in  her  hands.  She  had  left  her  hat  near  him, 
and  her  luxuriant  tresses  were  dancing  and  blowing 
behind  her.  She  seemed  a  human  sprite  born  of 
the  sun,  meadow,  and  sky,  a  winged  elf,  as  she 
bounded  along  the  path. 

"Here,"  she  panted,  bending  down  over  him, 
"drink  it!" 

He  obeyed,  his  gaze  on  her  above  the  edge  of  the 
crude  dipper. 

"  Now,"  she  ran  on,  in  tones  which  went  through 
him  like  memory's  shafts,  "let  me  dampen  your 
handkerchief  and  put  it  on  your  head." 

He  fumbled  weakly  for  the  thing,  but  was  unable 
to  get  it  out  of  the  breast-pocket  of  his  coat.  ' '  There, 
let  me,"  she  said,  sweetly,  and  putting  her  hand  into 
his  pocket  she  drew  out  the  handkerchief.  She 
saturated  it  with  water  and  put  it  on  his  brow, 
pressing  it  down  with  her  deft  hands.  "It  isn't 
quite  wet  enough,"  she  said.  "I'll  pour  some 
more  water  on.  Don't  move,  you'll  make  me  spill 
it  on  your  shirt  and  collar." 

He  was  pliant  in  her  hands.  He  said  nothing  for 
several  minutes,  then,  noticing  that  she  was  stand- 
ing, he  feebly  caught  her  hand  and  drew  her  down 
beside  him. 

"Sit  here — please,  please  do!"  he  urged.  She  com- 
plied, noting  that  he  clung  appealingly  to  her  hand. 

268 


NOBODY'S 

"Are  you  not  afraid  of  me?"  he  presently  asked. 

"Not  at  all,"  she  answered,  in  slow  surprise. 

"Then  you  don't  know  who  I  am?" 

"No,  I  do  not."  She  groped  for  his  meaning, 
wondering  if  he  were  quite  rational,  her  young  face 
close  to  his  wrinkled,  bloodless  one. 

"That  explains  it,"  she  heard  him  sigh.  "If  you 
had  had  the  slightest  idea  who  I  was  you  would 
have  run  away  when  I — when  I  fainted." 

"I  don't  think  so,"  she  said,  pacifically,  now  quite 
sure  that  his  mind  was  wandering. 

"I  am  convinced  of  it."  He  was  trying  to  smile 
reassuringly,  and  he  stroked  her  hand  gently  and 
patted  it.  "So  certain  of  it,  in  fact,  that  I  don't 
want  you  to  know.  I  don't  want  you  even  to  try 
to  guess." 

She  started  suddenly.  He  saw  her  eyes  resting 
on  the  roof  and  gables  of  his  house,  which  showed 
above  the  surrounding  trees  in  the  distance.  She 
did  not  take  her  hand  away,  and  he  thought  she 
was  regarding  him  with  renewed  interest. 

"You  must  be  General  Lowndes,"  she  said,  simply. 
"I  don't  know  why  I  think  so,  but  I  do." 

It  was  his  turn  to  show  surprise.  "You  think 
that,  and  yet  are  not — not  afraid?" 

"Not  at  all,  General  Lowndes." 

"And  yet  your  mother  is  afraid  of  me,  mortally 
afraid?" 

"Oh  yes,  sir;  but  she  and  I  are  not  alike  in  re- 
gard to  such  things.     We  are  very,  very  different. 

269 


NOBODY'S 

I  often  wonder  why  we  are  different  in  so  many 
ways." 

"I  supposed  she  would  have  taught  you  to  fear 
me — I  thought  you  would  grow  up  full  of  her  horror 
of  me.  I  always  thought  that,  if  I  ever  met  you, 
you'd  act  as  she  does.  She  runs  away  every  time 
I  approach  her." 

"Yes,"  Celeste  smiled,  frankly,  "and  lies  awake 
at  night,  and  screams  out  in  her  sleep  that  you  are 
trying  to  kill  her." 

"And  yet  you — you  are  not  a  bit  afraid?"  he 
went  on,  as  if  pleased  over  the  discovery. 

"There  is  a  reason,  perhaps  a  purely  scientific 
one,  why  I  cannot  fear  anything."  She  seemed  now 
to  be  speaking  as  much  to  her  inner  self  as  to  him. 
"Have  you  never  thought,  sir,  that  if  you  were  ab- 
solutely as  unhappy  as  it  is  possible  for  a  human 
being  to  be  that  you  would  fear  nothing?" 

"I  never  thought  of  it,"  he  said,  wondering  at  the 
calm  look  of  profound  meditation  that  seemed  to 
brood  in  her  face  and  eyes.  "I  don't  know  as  I 
exactly  understand  your  full  meaning.  Would  you 
mind  explaining?" 

1 '  I  can  perhaps  illustrate  it  by — by  a  little  French 
story  I  read  once,"  she  went  on.  "It  was  a  very 
analytical,  psychological  thing.  It  was  about  a 
man  who  was  so  unhappy  over  the  death  of  a  woman 
he  loved,  and  whom  he  had  found — unfaithful,  that 
he  was  about  to  kill  himself.  Have  you  ever  read 
it,  sir?  because  if  you  have — "     The  startled  ex- 

270 


NOBODY'S 

pression  of  wonder  in  his  eyes  over  her  unexpected 
use  of  words  and  unusual  trend  of  thought  had 
checked  her. 

"No,  no/'  he  cried,  "go  on.     Please  do." 

"There  isn't  much  more  of  it,  anyway,"  she  com- 
plied. "It  was  in  Paris.  He  had  left  the  dead 
body  of  his  love,  killed  his  rival,  and,  knowing  that 
he  would  be  pursued  and  arrested,  he  went  to  a 
lonely  spot  on  the  Seine  and  was  preparing  to  drown 
himself  when  a  robber  crept  up  behind  him,  held  a 
revolver  in  his  face,  and  told  him  to  give  up  his  purse 
or  be  shot.  There  was  nothing  for  the  miserable  man 
to  fear,  you  see,  and  he  laughed  in  the  robber's  face. 
He  spat  on  him.  He  laughed  again,  and  twisted  his 
nose,  and  pinched  his  ears,  and  pulled  his  hair,  crying 
out  to  the  robber  to  'Shoot — shoot — shoot!  For 
God's  sake,  shoot!  Heaven  sent  you,  my  friend, 
shoot !'" 

The  General  stared,  his  chin  hanging,  his  mouth 
open.  "Then  what  took  place?"  he  heard  himself 
inquiring  "Then — then  what?" 

Celeste  uttered  a  bitter  little  laugh.  "The  robber 
was  frightened.  He  dropped  his  revolver  and  ran 
as  if  all  the  imps  of  darkness  were  at  his  heels." 

The  large  hand  holding  the  warm,  small  one  grew 
tense.  A  groping,  childlike  look  of  admiration  filled 
the,  old  face. 

"And  you  read  and  recall  such  stories  as  that, 
and — and  apply  them  to  yourself.  Surely  you  don't 
mean  to — to  say  that  you  are  as  unhappy  as  that?" 

271 


NOBODY'S 

She  shrugged  her  pretty  shoulders.  Her  lips 
quivered. 

"No  one  threatens  to  kill  me,"  came  to  his  ears, 
and  it  thrilled  and  throbbed  through  his  whole  being. 
"The  story  makes  it  appear  that  the  man  in  it  had 
no  other  recourse  than  suicide.  Suicide  was  the 
only  logical  outcome  in  his  case,  but  something  tells 
me — something  like  a  whisper  from  Heaven — that  I 
must  not  give  way  yet — not  yet.  I  tried  it  once  re- 
cently, but  Mammy  came  and  stopped  me." 

1 '  But  why,  why —  ?"  The  General's  voice  died  out 
on  the  still  air.  He  was  stirred  in  recesses  of  his 
being  never  reached  before.  It  was  Cary's  daughter 
who  was  speaking  in  that  inimitable  tone,  from  that 
fathomless  depth  of  despair. 

"But  why — why  should  you?"  he  finally  gulped, 
feeling  that  his  words  were  sheer  mockery. 

"Perhaps  I  could  never  make  you  understand  my 
position  exactly,"  she  returned,  after  deliberation, 
and  he  felt  her  gently  twist  her  fingers  from  his 
would-be  detaining  clasp.  "It  is  too  deep  and  far- 
reaching.  I've  been  given  a  taste — a  little,  tiny,  wee 
bit  of  a  taste  of  happiness.  I've  stood  outside  the 
gates  of  earthly  paradise  and  peeped  in,  and  dis- 
covered that  I  can  never  enter.  You  know  why,  if 
you'll  just  think  a  moment." 

She  seemed  shaken  now  to  the  very  core  of  her 
being.  The  gentle  light  of  concern  for  his  welfare 
had  died  out  of  her  eyes,  the  mellowness  had  fled 
from  her  voice.     She  had  risen  and  stood  staring 

272 


NOBODY'S 

listlessly  across  the  meadow,  her  gaze  on  the  Hartley 
mansion.  He  struggled  to  his  feet  unassisted.  She 
proffered  no  aid.  She  seemed  to  have  forgotten  his 
age  and  recent  weakness. 

"May  I  ask  a  favor?"  he  queried,  almost  timidly, 
as  he  stood  close  to  her.  Feeling  her  slow  glance 
return  to  him,  he  went  on:  "I  don't  want  your 
mother  to  be  frightened  at  me  any  longer.  Perhaps 
it  would  be  wise  not  to  speak  to  her  of — of  meeting 
me. 

"  I  didn't  intend  to  do  so,  anyway,  sir,"  she 
answered.  "I  have  long  since  learned  that  there 
are  many  things  which  she  ought  not  to  know.  She 
is  abnormally  suspicious  and  excitable." 

There  was  a  pause;  it  was  becoming  an  awkward 
one  when  the  General  blurted  out: 

' '  May  I  ask  if — if  she  has  ever  told  you  who — who 
your  father — " 

"I  understand,"  she  quickly  took  him  up.  "No, 
that  is  one  of  the  things  which  have  been  avoided.  I 
don't  really  know,  and  since  I  am  what  I  am  I 
would  not  like  to  be  told.  I  was  a  little  curious  a 
short  while  ago,  but  I  am  afraid  of  it  now.  I'm 
afraid,  you  see,  that  some — some  fresh  horror  might 
be  unearthed.  I  don't  want  to  know  his  name.  I 
have  heard  that  he  is  dead.  I'm  almost  glad,  for — 
for  I  would  not  like  to  meet  him  here  nor  in  any  other 
life.  I  don't  see  how  heaven  itself  could  make  a 
meeting  like  that  a  happy  one." 

The  old  man  was  unable  to  formulate  anything 

273 


NOBODY'S 

helpful  to  the  situation.  Words  and  thoughts 
seethed  in  the  chaos  of  his  bewildered  brain.  He 
saw  her  turning  from  him,  and  caught  himself  bowing 
to  her  as  he  had  long  ago  bowed  to  her  prototype. 
On  her  part,  there  was  the  same  proud  erectness  of 
form  he  remembered  so  well,  the  old  lifting  of  the 
arched  brows,  the  almost  condescending  nod  of  the 
graceful  head,  and  they  parted. 

"My  poor  boy's  daughter!"  he  groaned.  "As 
beautiful  as  a  young  goddess,  and  yet  tainted  with — 
How  can  it  be?     My  God,  how  can  it  be?" 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

FOR  the  next  few  days  Hartley  was  in  a  con- 
suming fever  of  restless  anxiety.  That  Celeste 
was  persistently  avoiding  him  was  more  than  evident. 
He  brooded  in  solitude  over  this,  telling  himself  that 
till  he  had  come  to  Fairview  her  intercourse  with  his 
sister  had  been  agreeable  and  undisturbed.  He  had 
come  between  Celeste  and  the  profitable  pastime  of 
reading  in  the  library.  Instead  of  the  companion- 
ship of  the  authors  she  loved,  he  had  driven  her  to 
the  deadly  monotony  of  intercourse  with  Mam' 
Ansie  or  to  her  lonely  outdoor  work  with  her  brush 
and  colors.  The  stagnation  of  his  plans  in  regard  to 
the  unraveling  of  the  mystery  on  her  life  was  galling 
in  the  extreme,  and  the  coming  of  General  Lowndes 
into  the  vicinity  had  in  no  way  elucidated  the 
matter. 

Hartley  was  in  the  dregs  of  one  of  his  most  de- 
spondent moods  one  afternoon,  when,  happening  to 
be  at  a  window  of  his  room  looking  dejectedly  tow- 
ard the  negro  quarter,  he  saw  Celeste  emerge  from 
the  cottage  gate.  She  had  her  portfolio  under  her 
arm,  and  took  the  circuitous  path  which  led  up  the 
mountain  -  side.  He  knew  whither  she  was  going, 
and  telling  himself  that  he  would  by  no  means  ap- 

19  275 


NOBODY'S 

proach  her  or  disturb  her  meditation  or  sketching, 
yet  he  would  at  any  rate  walk  in  the  same  direction. 
He  rubbed  off  the  rough  edges  of  this  masculine  in- 
consistency by  arguing  that  the  mountain  path  was 
an  isolated  and  dangerous  one,  and  she  might  really 
need  protection.  Jeff  Daniels  had  left  the  country, 
but  other  perils  might  lie  in  her  way.  No,  he  would 
not  show  himself  to  her,  but  it  would  be  a  pleasure 
to  watch  over  her  in  secret  and  feast  his  eyes  upon 
her  movements.  So  it  was  that  he  soon  found  him- 
self strolling  along  in  the  girl's  wake,  now  cheeking 
his  gait  to  keep  from  overtaking  her  or  rendering 
his  steps  audible  to  her  ears.  He  soon  discovered 
that  there  was  no  danger  of  his  being  seen,  for,  with 
her  head  always  down,  Celeste  never  once  glanced 
back.  He  told  himself  that  she  was  in  profound, 
if  not  disturbed,  reflections.  There  seemed  to  be  a 
dejected  droop  upon  her.  Her  step  was  slow;  she 
appeared  to  drag  her  feet  along.  He  imagined  that 
she  was  sighing,  perhaps  speaking  to  herself.  Higher 
and  higher  the  path  was  taking  them.  The  pict- 
uresque panorama  of  woodland,  field,  stream,  hill, 
and  dale  was  ever  expanding.  The  air  of  the  higher 
altitude  was  crisp  and  bracing;  he  felt  an  unusual 
buoyancy  of  body.  Despite  his  gloomy  mood  of 
the  past  few  days,  he  was  oddly  cheerful.  To  what 
was  it  due?  Had  he  been  coldly  analytical — had 
he  examined  himself  as  a  psychologist  might  have 
done — he  would  have  known  that  his  throbbing 
elation  was  due  to  nothing  but  his  proximity  to  the 

276 


NOBODY'S 

creature  he  loved,  to  his  sense  of  having  her  there 
among  the  clouds  all  to  himself.  For  that  contented 
moment  the  world  and  its  conventional  demands  had 
dropped  from  him  and  her,  and  they  stood  alone, 
two  spirit  creatures  lifted  above  all  that  was  tem- 
poral. A  vast  recklessness  seized  him.  A  force 
outside  of  himself — stronger  than  his  will — seemed 
to  grasp  him  and  draw  him  onward  —  onward  and 
toward  her.  What  mattered  it?  he  asked  himself. 
Could  his  joining  her  there  and  seeing  her  once 
more,  hearing  her  soulful  voice,  add  to  his  or  her 
misery?  No,  but  it  could  take  much  from  it,  he 
told  himself,  and  he  quickened  his  step,  thinking 
only  of  her  look  of  surprise,  and  somehow  not 
dreading  it  in  the  slightest.  She  had  reached  her 
favorite  seat  on  the  extreme  edge  of  the  bluff.  Her 
willowy  form  was  clearly  outlined  against  the  in- 
effable blue  beyond,  as  she  stood  looking  down  into 
the  depths  below.  Then  she  seated  herself,  and 
without  glancing  in  his  direction  proceeded  to  open 
her  portfolio.  Hartley  advanced  with  cautious 
steps  till  he  was  within  a  few  paces  of  her,  and  then 
among  the  stunted  thorn  bushes  he  paused  and 
stood  still.  What  had  checked  him  he  hardly  knew. 
She  was  already  at  work  with  her  pencil.  She  wore 
a  becoming  straw  hat,  the  ribbons  of  which  flut- 
tered in  the  stiff  breeze  that  blew  up  the  perpendic- 
ular side  of  the  cliff,  and  a  neat  blue  skirt  and  well- 
fitting  shirt-waist.  Her  golden  hair  caught  the 
slanting  rays  of  the  sun  and  held  them  in  its  mystic 

277 


NOBODY'S 

meshes.  Her  wonderful  profile  was  toward  him,  as 
clearly  outlined  as  a  statue.  Had  his  courage  and 
confidence  forsaken  him,  he  wondered,  else  why 
this  hesitation,  this  returning  of  fear  and  doubt? 
He  was  thinking  now,  in  growing  perturbation,  of 
retracing  his  steps  as  noiselessly  as  possible,  when 
suddenly  she  turned  her  head  and  looked  straight 
at  him,  and  to  his  surprise  with  no  alteration  of 
countenance. 

He  doffed  his  hat.  He  felt  his  blood  flow  in  a 
desperate  rush  to  his  face  as  he  stepped  nearer. 

"You  had  no  idea  I  was — was  following,"  he  be- 
gan.    "I  must  beg — " 

"Yes,  I  knew,"  she  said,  giving  him  the  slow, 
sweeping  glance  he  had  come  to  associate  only  with 
her  eyes  and  lashes. 

"But  I  am  quite  sure  you  did  not  see — you  did 
not  look  back,"  he  declared.  "I  was  watching  you 
every  step  of  the  way." 

"That  may  be,  and  yet — I  knew,"  she  said,  in 
that  deadly  calm  of  hers.  "That  is  one  of  the  cir- 
cumstances which  absolutely  proves  that  there  is 
such  a  thing  as  —  as  spirit-telegraphy,  thought- 
transference.  Why,  away  back  at  the  foot  of 
the  mountain,  I  knew — I  was  positive.  I  wanted 
you  to  turn  back,  and  yet  —  well,  I  hoped  you 
wouldn't." 

"You  hoped  I  wouldn't — you  really  hoped  that?" 
His  heart  bounded;  there  was  a  dry,  tight  feeling 
in  his  throat.     He  came  forward  and  sat  a  few  feet 

278 


NOBODY'S 

from  her  on  the  rock,  upon  the  edge  of  which  she 
was  so  dangerously  poised. 

"Yes,  because,' '  she  said,  eying  him  placidly, 
"there  are  so  many  things  that  I  want  you  to  tell 
me  about.  I  know  meeting  you  like  this  is — wrong; 
but  what  am  I  to  do?  To  whom  can  I  turn?  I 
sometimes  liken  myself  to  a  fuzzy  little  chicken 
that  has  pecked  a  hole  through  its  shell  and  peeped 
out  upon  a  thousand  encroaching  horrors — they 
fairly  swirl  and  eddy  about  me.*  They  perplex, 
mystify,  frighten  me  with  their  sheer  relentlessness, 
their  constant  pursuit.  I  read  a  novel  once  about 
a  man  who  was  confined  in  an  insane  asylum.  To 
amuse  himself  he  drew  a  most  elaborate  plan,  de- 
tail after  detail,  thread,  screw,  and  tiny  springs  of 
a  machine  upon  which  a  malicious  operator  at  a 
great  distance  worked  upon  his  every  emotion.  I 
sometimes  think  that  fits  my  case.  Fate  seems  to 
have" — she  smiled  wistfully  and  shook  her  head 
as  if  at  the  use  of  the  slang — "to  have  it  in  for  me. 
One  minute  a  hope  is  held  out,  and  then — poof!  it's 
gone  like  a  bubble  that  had  all  the  colors  of  the 
rainbow  and  ends  in  a  drop  of  suds.  Then  again  a 
horror  is  made  real  only  to  vanish  in  the  most  in- 
explicable way." 

"If  you  have  such  nightmares,"  he  tried  to  speak 
lightly,  "I  am  glad  they  take  wings.  Nothing  but 
beautiful  dreams  and  beautiful  realities  should  be 
yours." 

She  seemed  not  to  have  heard  his  remark.     ' '  Yes, ' ' 

279 


NOBODY'S 

she  continued,  "  there  was  the  awful  treatment  of 
those  rough  mountain  men  who  met  me  in  the  road 
and  abused  me.  That  clung  to  me  for  months  and 
months,  night  and  day.  Satan's  bible,  that  book, 
you  know,  explained  why  they  had  treated  me  as 
they  did,  but  not  a  line  in  it  explains  the  sequel — 
the  maddening,  tantalizing  sequel." 

"The  sequel  ?"  he  repeated,  his  heart  aching  per- 
haps as  much  or  more  than  hers  had  ached,  as  he 
gazed  upon  her  melting  piteousness,  her  abject  de- 
tachment from  the  aid  of  God  or  man. 

"Yes,  you  see,  Gordon — "  She  stopped.  The 
color  flooded  her  face,  her  lashes  went  down.  "For- 
give me,  I've  heard  your  sister  call  you  by  that  name 
so  often  that  I  catch  myself  doing  it.  All  the — the 
negroes  say  'Marse  Gordon,'  as  does  my  mother. 
The  books  I've  read  show  the  forms  the  best  society 
use,  but  as  I've  had  no  actual  practice 'among  such 
people  my  tongue  slips.  Then,  too,  it  is  the — the 
name  that  always  somehow  represents  you  to  me. 
You  must  try  to  forgive — " 

"I  want  you  to  call  me  that  all  the  time,"  he 
gulped.  "You  must  in  future.  It  would  sound 
sweeter  from  your  lips  than — " 

"No,  no!" — she  checked  him  with  a  little  peremp- 
tory wave  of  her  pencil — "don't  say  anything  like 
that.  You  will  regret  it,  or — or  make  me  sorry  we 
met  here  like  this.  Surely  we  can  talk  without 
stepping  over  the — the  bounds  of  propriety." 

She  was  looking  at  the  lines  she  had  drawn  on  the 

280 


NOBODY'S 

sheet  in  her  portfolio.     She  seemed  to  have  forgotten 
what  she  had  started  to  say. 

"You  were  speaking  of  the — the  sequel  to — "  he 
began. 

1 '  Yes,  I  remember. ' '  She  gave  him  her  full  glance 
now.  "The  sequel  to  that  episode  is  more  mystify- 
ing than  the  episode  itself.  I  can  almost  hear  fiend- 
ish Fate  laughing  at  me  as  if  I  were  the  victim  of  a 
great  joke,  the  fun  of  which  lies  in  my  stupid  in- 
ability to  understand.  You  see,  the  faces  of  those 
men  were  as  clearly  stamped  on  my  memory  as  if 
branded  by  a  hot  iron  on  my  brain,  and  you  may 
be  sure  when  I  saw  two  of  them  approaching  me 
down  the  road  the  other  day  that  I  was  fairly  scared 
out  of  my  senses.  You  may  be  able  to  imagine  my 
astonishment,  too,  then,  when  I  tell  you  that  they 
stopped  me — " 

"They  dared — "  Hartley  sprang  to  his  feet,  a 
storm  of  fury  rising  in  him  which  no  force  could  have 
conquered  except  that  which  Celeste  herself  promptly 
used. 

"Wait!"  she  said,  calmly,  and  with  a  rigid  little 
smile.  "They  got  off  their  wagon,  which  was  loaded 
with  sticks  of  wood,  and — and  as  they  came  toward 
me  they  actually  took  off  their  ragged  hats  and 
bowed.  Then  in  tones  that  were  full  of  feeling  and 
contrition  they  humbly  begged  my  pardon  for  what 
they  had  done  and  said  that  day.  They  said  they 
realized  that  they  had  done  me  a  great  wrong  and 
were  sorry  for  it." 

281 


NOBODY'S 

"Oh,  I  see!"  Hartley  exclaimed,  a  light  breaking 
on  him,  but  he  said  no  more,  for  Celeste's  penetrating 
gaze  was  on  him. 

"They  went  off  without  explaining,"  she  pursued. 
"I  was  unable  to  comprehend  their  conduct  in  the 
slightest.  They  got  on  their  wagon  and  rode  away, 
leaving  the  riddle  written  in  the  fading  sunshine. 
What  did  it  mean  ?     Can  you  possibly  tell  me  ?" 

Hartley  was  staggered  by  her  sudden  question. 
He  well  knew  that  it  was  due  to  what  he  had  said 
that  night  at  the  school-house.  But  how  could  he 
explain  without  extending  a  hope  which,  ungratified, 
would  be  the  crowning  sorrow  of  her  existence? 
What  more  mocking  thing  could  Fate  offer  than  that 
particular  anticipation  if  its  materialization  failed  ? 
No,  no,  she  must  not  be  told  that — not  yet,  at  least. 
Painful  as  was  her  life,  it  must  not  be  made  more  so. 

"You  know  well  enough,  but  you  won't  tell  me." 
There  was  a  touch  of  bitter  finality  and  resignation 
in  her  tone  and  the  softer  sigh  which  swallowed 
it  up. 

"You  mean — "  He  was  trying  to  gain  time  that 
he  might  wisely  combat  the  crisis  to  which  she  had 
led  him. 

She  fell  into  silence.  He  saw  her  shoulders  rise 
as  from  a  shudder  of  renunciation  of  his  aid. 

"Never  mind  what  I  mean — it  is  of  no  conse- 
quence," he  heard  her  say,  quite  firmly.  "The  fact 
that  you  don't  explain  is  sufficient  evidence  that  I 
ought  not  to  know.     My  mother  loves  me  with  all 

282 


NOBODY'S 

her  heart  and  yet  she  keeps  certain  things  from  me, 
and  you — you  are  a  friend  also.  I  know  that  well 
enough,  and  I  shall  question  you  no  more  than  I  do 
her.  As  I  look  out  from  my  shell  into  the  surround- 
ing darkness,  some  sweet,  kind  faces  emerge,  and 
they  are  lighted  with  a  glow  that  proves  there  is 
something  eternally  good  in  life.  God  Himself 
seems  to  stand  helpless  against  the  forces  of  evil,  and 
so  do  my — my — well-wishers  against  the  malicious 
things  which  attack  me." 

In  the  sheer  agony  of  a  brave  man's  helplessness 
Hartley  stared  into  the  blue  space  beyond  her.  His 
face  and  eyes  were  ablaze.  He  locked  his  hands  and 
bit  his  tongue,  but  remained  silent. 

' '  There  is  so  much  to  wonder  over — so  many  sharp 
and  pleasant  surprises,"  she  went  on,  artlessly. 
"There  was  one  individual  that,  somehow,  I  always 
thought  would  fairly  kick  me  out  of  his  way  if  I  ever 
chanced  to  meet  him,  and  yet  the  other  day  I  came 
upon  him  alone  in  the  meadow.  He  was  faint  from 
the  heat,  and,  not  knowing  him,  I  tried  to  help  him 
by  bringing  him  some  water,  and  instead  of  abusing 
me — he" — her  voice  had  fallen  very  low;  Hartley 
barely  caught  the  conclusion  of  her  sentence — "he 
actually  held  my  hand  in  his  and  seemed  anxious  to 
detain  me.  Instead  of  fearing  him  and  disliking  him, 
I  found  that  I  was  actually  drawn  to  him  in  a 
sympathy  I  could  not  control.  And,  what  was 
stranger  still,  if  my  intuition  amounts  to  anything,  I 
am  sure  that  he  felt  the  same  way  about  me.     I've 

283 


NOBODY'S 

heard  that  he  was  a  fiend  in  human  shape,  and  yet 
he — broke  down  and  clung  to  me." 

"It  was  General  Lowndes — you  have  met  him?" 
Hartley  exclaimed.  "You  have  met  him,  and  he 
was  like  that!" 

"Yes,  I  met  him,  and  but  for  the  fact  that  I  saw, 
as  I  see  everywhere,  the  shadow  of  my  mystery  in 
his  face,  I  should  have  been  glad  that  I  did  so.  The 
reason  that  I  thought  you  might  at  least  explain  the 
change  in  those  mountain  men  toward  me  was — 
But  that  is  forbidden  ground.     It  is,  isn't  it?" 

He  showed  by  the  wavering  look  in  his  eyes  that 
he  was  fully  cognizant  of  her  deliberate  drift  in  the 
forbidden  direction. 

"I  explain  the  change  in  those  men?"  he  stam- 
mered, awkwardly.  "You  see,  Celeste,  it  is  only 
just  now  that  I  have  heard  of  the — the  change." 

"Oh  yes" — she  laughed  bitterly — "you  could  ex- 
plain— the  key  is  in  your  hands,  but  you  won't  give 
it  up.  I  see.  I'll  never  know.  You  told  that  mad 
mob  something  that  night  which  caused  them  to 
release  you  and  become  friendly  toward  me.  Is  it 
any  wonder  that  I,  who  have  such  a  keen  apprecia- 
tion of  the  kind  things  which  come  my  way,  should 
long  to  know?  You  befriended  me  that  night. 
Exactly  how,  I  don't  know — but  you  did.  I  am  not 
asking  you  to  tell — I  really  am  not.  I  realize  how 
little  right  I  have  to  question,  to  wonder  even — but 
you  see,  that  was  done  for  me.  I'd  rather  know  it, 
Gordon — I'd  rather  know  it  than  to  know  for  sure 

284 


NOBODY'S 

that  eternity  lies  before  me  full  of  all  the  bliss  God 
could  possibly  invent." 

"I — really — Celeste,  I — "  he  stammered,  but  his 
voice,  laden  with  thwarted  desires,  trailed  away  into 
silence. 

He  saw  her  nod  her  pretty  head  sadly.  Her  face 
met  the  direct  rays  of  the  setting  sun  as  it  sank  into 
the  edge  of  a  saffron  cloud,  through  which  its  blaze 
streamed  as  through  a  frosted  glass. 

'"I'll  never  know — never  know — never,  never 
know!"  He  saw  her  lips  framing  the  words  rather 
than  producing  their  sound. 

He  bent  toward  her.  "I  can't  tell  you  that, 
Celeste,  little  girl,  but  I  can  tell  you  that  my  heart — " 

"No,  stop!"  she  cried,  in  accents  of  real  alarm. 
"You  mustn't!  You  mustn't — you  know  you 
mustn't!  You  must  neither  speak  to  me  like  that 
nor  induce,  tempt,  nor  even  allow  me  to  say  such 
things  to — to  you.  We  are  not  weak,  helpless, 
passionate  creatures.  You  know  if  you  really  re- 
spect me  that  you  have  no  right  to  do  that.  You 
know — you  know!" 

He  ground  his  teeth  in  silence.  She  had  forced 
his  duty  on  him.  To  address  her  as  he  was  about  to 
address  her  would  in  her  eyes  have  been  an  insult. 

"Forgive  me,  forgive  me,"  he  muttered.  "You 
are  wiser — wiser  and  stronger  than  I  am." 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

THE  rock  upon  which  she  sat  rested  on  the 
smooth  surface  of  a  shelf  of  stone  which  pro- 
jected several  feet  out  from  the  face  of  a  perpen- 
dicular cliff  more  than  two  hundred  feet  high.  He 
was  standing,  and  as  he  peered  over  the  sharp  edge 
at  the  scrubby  trees  and  jagged  boulders  below,  he 
was  conscious  of  a  dizzy  sensation  in  the  head,  and 
it  struck  him,  seeing  that  she  showed  a  tendency 
to  rise  in  the  fact  that  she  had  closed  her  portfolio, 
that,  considering  her  indifference  to  danger,  her 
position  was  a  most  precarious  one.  There  was  less 
than  a  yard  between  her  feet  and  the  extreme  edge, 
and,  what  seemed  worse,  that  portion  of  the  rock 
sloped  sharply  downward.  He  was  about  to  offer 
his  assistance,  seeing  her  stand  quite  erect  and  in- 
differently lifting  her  skirt  to  ascend  the  incline, 
when  she  stepped  upon  a  pencil  which  she  had 
dropped.  It  turned  beneath  her  foot,  and  before 
he  could  reach  her  she  had  fallen  and  rolled  over 
and  over  till,  as  by  a  miracle,  the  lower  three- 
fourths  of  her  body  had  disappeared  over  the  preci- 
pice. By  the  merest  chance  one  of  her  feet  had 
caught  upon  some  projecting  part  of  the  cliff's  face, 
and,  with  her  hands  and  arms  pressed  tightly  against 

286 


NOBODY'S 

the  rock,  she  held  herself  poised,  her  head  and 
shoulders  only  in  view. 

Hartley  sprang  toward  her;  but  as  he  bent  over 
her  he  realized  that  it  would  be  impossible  on  such 
a  smooth,  sloping  surface  to  lift  her.  His  hands 
went  down  to  hers,  but  he  saw  to  his  horror  that 
the  releasing  of  her  clutch  on  the  rock  would,  in 
adding  her  weight  to  his,  at  such  an  angle,  certainly 
draw  them  both  over.  She  had  uttered  no  cry,  and 
there  was  in  her  face  scarcely  a  look  of  terror;  but 
as  her  upward  glance  met  his  horrified  one  she 
smiled  a  pale,  brave  little  smile  and  said,  quickly: 

"Don't  touch  me!  You  can't  draw  me  up.  If 
you  move  my  hands  I'm  lost.  You  would  be,  too. 
Let  me  alone!" 

He  was  convinced  that  she  was  right,  and  his 
heart  sank  in  dumb  dismay.  He  was  not  thinking 
of  his  own  danger;  he  was  only  horrified  over  his 
sheer  inability  to  aid  her.  The  thought  came  to 
him  in  a  flash  that  he  might  take  off  his  coat  and 
throw  it  to  her  to  grasp,  and  he  was  about  to  do  it 
when  he  heard  her  cry  out  in  a  startled  tone: 

"Oh,  I'm  falling!     My  foot  is  slipping!" 

He  heard  the  crunching  sound  of  yielding  stone 
beneath,  and  saw  the  rock  cut  into  her  wrists  as  she 
began  to  sink.  As  quick  as  lightning  came  the  in- 
spired thought  that  with  his  body  prone  upon  the 
slope  his  clothing  might  prevent  his  slipping.  He 
threw  himself  down  on  the  extreme  edge  of  the  cliff 
and  put  his  left  arm  about  her  just  as  the  remainder 

287 


NOBODY'S 

of  her  foothold  gave  way  and  went  rattling  down 
the  side  of  the  rock.  Her  full  weight  suddenly  fell 
upon  his  arm  and  drew  his  body  still  nearer  the 
edge,  where  it  hung  so  miraculously  poised  that  it 
seemed  as  if  a  gust  of  air  would  dislodge  him. 

To  lessen  the  strain  on  his  arm,  which,  drawn 
against  the  sharp  edge  of  the  stone,  seemed  about 
to  break,  he  drew  her  as  firmly  against  the  face  of 
the  cliff  as  his  treacherous  hold  would  permit.  Thus 
perhaps  twenty  seconds  passed.  They  seemed  so 
many  minutes  at  least,  in  which  his  mind  received 
and  discarded  hundreds  of  suggestions,  all  of  which 
were  futile.  He  felt  his  strength  going,  and  knew 
he  could  not  hold  out  long.  Their  faces  were  close 
together;  he  could  feel  her  breath  on  his  left  cheek. 
Then  she  said  softly,  as  if  fearing  that  even  her 
breathing  would  add  peril  to  the  situation: 

"Let  me  go,  Gordon;   it  is  your  only  chance!" 

"No,  no,  for  God's  sake,  no!"  he  gasped,  in  his 
great  strain. 

"But  you  can't  save  me — you  really  can't!"  she 
pleaded.  "Oh,  do  save  yourself!  Let  me  go!  I 
don't  mind  a  bit.     It  is  all  for  the  best." 

"Be  perfectly  still!"  he  whispered.  "If  you  let 
go,  I  shall — follow  you." 

"Do  you  mean  it — Gordon?" 

"Before  God  I  do.  I  would  not  wait  an  in- 
stant!" 

"I  believe  he  would,"  he  heard  her  whisper,  and 
he  fancied  there  was  a  touch  of  satisfaction  in  her 

288 


NOBODY'S 

tone.     ''Then  you  must — must  save  me.     Let's  try 
our  best — our  very  best!" 

Their  eyes  met  in  a  wondrous  stare  of  soul  com- 
prehension. He  faintly  smiled — it  was  a  smile 
meant  to  comfort  her.  "We  haven't  one  chance  in 
a  million,"  he  whispered.  "My  hold  amounts  to 
nothing  at  all,  but  we  must  try  now  before  I  am  too 
weak." 

She  seemed  to  assent  by  the  mere  flicker  of  her 
eyelids. 

"Poor,  dear,  dear  Gordon!"  he  heard  her  whisper. 
"Think  what  I  have  cost  you!"  Then  she  looked 
away  to  keep  from  seeing  the  purple  agony  of  his 
face,  for  he  was  slowly,  cautiously,  and  with  an  arm 
of  steel  drawing  her  to  him. 

"Now,  now!"  she  heard  him  cry,  as  he  began  to 
lift  her  upward.  "That's  it!"  he  panted.  "Bear 
down  with  your  hands!"  She  obeyed,  and  he  pres- 
ently drew  her  breast  over  against  his,  and  she 
finally  succeeded  in  getting  her  knee  on  the  surface 
of  the  rock.  Just  then  his  body  slipped  a  trifle 
nearer  the  edge,  and  to  save  him  she  lowered  her 
own  toward  his,  a  hand  upon  either  side  of  the 
rock — the  right  having  barely  an  inch  of  margin 
to  rest  upon.  He  was  afraid  even  to  turn  his  head 
to  look  up  the  slope,  where  it  struck  him  there 
might  be  some  uneven  portion  or  crevice  which  she 
could  grasp  or  into  which  she  might  thrust  her 
fingers.  Calmly  he  told  her  what  he  wanted,  and 
she  looked. 

289 


NOBODY'S 

"Yes,  I  see  a  crack,"  she  answered,  "but  it  is 
almost  out  of  my  reach.  What  must  I  do  ?  I  can- 
not touch  it  without  taking  my  hand  up,  and — and 
that  would  throw  you  over." 

"Lie  flat  upon  me  with  all  your  weight,"  he  said, 
"but  do  it  very,  very  cautiously." 

Even  in  the  face  of  the  death  that  awaited  them 
he  saw  the  color  rising  in  her  face  at  the  plan  he 
had  proposed.  She  was  hesitating,  her  eyes  avoid- 
ing the  steady  stare  of  his. 

"You  mustn't  mind,"  he  whispered.  "Oh,  God, 
you  mustn't!" 

"No,"  he  heard  her  say,  "no,  Isha'n't."  And 
then  her  breast  went  down  to  his.  She  raised  her 
left  hand  slowly,  and  as  she  did  so  her  cheek  was 
pressed  firmly  down  against  his  lips;  the  temptation 
came  to  him  to  kiss  her,  for  he  thought  it  would  be 
over  with  them  in  a  moment,  and  yet  he  refrained. 
Her  hair,  warmed  by  the  sun  and  contact  with  her 
neck,  slipped  down  against  the  side  of  his  face,  and 
he  breathed  its  delicious  perfume.  By  the  cautious 
movements  of  her  cheek  and  breast  he  knew  that 
she  was  straining  her  arm  to  reach  the  crevice  she 
had  sighted.  He  heard  her  sighing  in  despair,  and 
then  she  cried  out  softly: 

"I've  got  it!"  He  felt  her  drawing  from  him 
slowly  and  yet  firmly,  the  while  clutching  the  lapel 
of  his  coat  in  her  right  hand  and  thus  holding  him 
on  the  rock.  The  next  instant  she  had  rolled  him 
over  on  his  side,  and  in  a  position  of  safety  was 

290 


NOBODY'S 

pulling  him  up.  Cautiously  he  crept  up  the  sloping 
rock,  now  grasping  her  hand,  till  he  sat  beside  her. 
He  laughed  without  making  a  sound;  his  face  was 
almost  luminously  pale  as  it  caught  the  oblique 
rays  of  the  sun.  The  strain  had  been  too  great  for 
him;  the  vast  valley  swam  before  him;  the  rock 
seemed  floating  in  the  clouds  which  hung  between 
them  and  the  sun.  He  fought  the  weakness  man- 
fully and  finally  conquered.  He  looked  like  a  dead 
person  in  whose  eyes  only  the  reflection  of  the  soul 
remained. 

"I  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  myself,"  he  said,  "to 
act  like  this  now  that — that  it  is  over." 

"Only  God  knows  what  you  went  through,"  she 
said.  Her  hand  was  still  in  his.  She  seemed  to 
have  forgotten  to  remove  it.  With  a  motherly  im- 
pulse she  put  her  arm  about  him  as  if  to  support  his 
quivering  body,  and  then,  realizing  what  she  was 
doing,  she  removed  it.  He  saw  blood  trickling  from 
both  her  wrists,  and  he  examined  them;  they  had 
been  cut  and  scratched  by  the  sharp  edges  of  stone 
on  which  they  had  rested.  He  had  an  all  but  over- 
powering impulse  to  kiss  them  and  fondle  them,  in 
that  way  to  comfort  her  for  something,  he  knew  not 
what. 

"You  saved  my  life,"  she  said — "my  worthless 
life.  I  started  to  kill  myself  only  the  other  night 
and  was  prevented  by  a  mere  little  accident,  and  yet 
you  did  all  this  to  save  me.  How  queer,  how  sweet 
and  good  and  brave^of  you!" 

20  291 


NOBODY'S 

She  was  looking  into  his  worshipful  eyes.  Had 
she  held  out  her  arms  to  him  and  asked  him  to  em- 
brace her  he  could  not  have  better  understood  what 
he  had  become  to  her.  For  a  moment  he  failed  to 
realize  the  full  import  of  her  reference  to  the  at- 
tempt on  her  life.  Then,  in  a  shock,  it  flashed  upon 
him. 

"Oh,  you  can't  mean  that?"  he  gasped.  "Surely 
you  don't?" 

She  simply  nodded,  and  then  she  raised  her  hands 
to  her  face  and  pressed  the  tips  of  her  fingers  into  the 
sockets  of  her  closed  eyes. 

"Are  you  in  earnest?"  he  asked.  "Did  you 
really?" 

"Yes,"  she  answered,  simply,  her  face  still  covered. 

"But  why,  oh,  why?" 

"Do  you  remember  the  day" — she  was  now  look- 
ing directly  at  him — "the  day  you  were  riding  by 
and  saw  that — that  colored  boy  walking  along  with 
me?" 

"Yes,  yes,  and  I—" 

"You  were  angry  at  me,"  she  broke  in.  "I  saw  it 
from  your  looks.  It  made  me  miserable,  and — and 
that  night  I  went  to  the  river  and — well,  Mammy 
followed  me  and  drew  me  back.  You'd  never  been 
angry  at  me  before,  and — " 

"But  I  wasn't!— I  wasn't!"  he  cried.  "I  wasn't 
blaming  you.  I  understood  how  it  was,  but  I  could 
have  killed  him.  I  was  mad  at  myself  for  not  being 
able  to  rid  you  of — of  his  company,  for  I  knew  that 

292 


NOBODY'S 

you  did  not  want  him  with  you,  and  yet,  for  your 
own  sake,  I  had  to  pass  it  over.  If  I  had  thrashed 
him  people  would  have  misunderstood  and  talked 
about  you.     I  could  not  stand  that." 

"Oh,  was  that  it?  I'm  so  glad!  so  glad!  Now 
I  understand."  He  saw  her  deliberately  check  her- 
self. She  brushed  some  fragments  of  stone  and 
grains  of  sand  from  her  skirt  and  rested  her  glance, 
now  cold,  reserved,  and  half  fearful,  on  her  port- 
folio, which  had  fallen  on  the  flat  surface  of  the  cliff. 
He  rose  and  brought  it  to  her.  • 

"Must  you  go?"  he  pleaded. 

"Yes" — her  eyes  on  the  disappearing  sun — "it  is 
late,  and  Mammy  will  be  anxious.     Will  you  do  me 
a  favor?"     She  was  looking  at  her  cut  and  bruised  * 
wrists. 

"Ten  thousand,"  he  said,  fervidly,  "if  only  you 
will  give  me  the  chance." 

"It  won't  be  hard."  She  gave  him  her  hand  to 
aid  her  in  rising,  and,  as  she  stood  beside  him  and 
drew  it  from  his  eager  and  tender  grasp,  she  finished : 
"Would  you  mind  not  mentioning  this  accident  to 
Mammy?" 

"Certainly  not." 

"Nor  to  your  sister,  nor  any  one?" 

"I'll  be  as  dumb  as  this  stone." 

"It  would  be  hard  to  explain — hard  to — to  talk 
in  an  ordinary  way  about  what  is  now  so — so  sacred. 
It  is  our  secret,  isn't  it?" 

' '  Yes, ' '  he  responded,  ' '  ours  alone. ' '     They  walked 

293 


NOBODY'S 

side  by  side  down  the  path,  the  dying  rays  of  the 
sun  slanting  across  their  way  and  blazing  against  the 
mountain  heights  beyond  and  above  them. 

"Now,  will  you  promise  me  something?"  he  asked 
under  his  hot'  breath,  for  his  passion  was  consuming 
him  body  and  soul  as  he  looked  upon  her  and  realized 
at  once  what  she  was  and  was  not  to  him. 

"A  thousand,"  she  quoted,  lightly,  and  yet  with 
the  sweet  drawn  look  of  curbed  tenderness  about 
her  exquisite  mouth. 

"Will  you  promise  me,  if  you  ever  again  despair 
like  you  say  you  did,  that  you  will  come  to  me  first 
— before  doing  anything  rash?" 

She  reflected  a  moment,  then  she  said: 

"Yes,  I  can  promise  that — I  can  promise  it  read- 
ily, for  I  have  learned  that  such  things  are  cowardly 
and  weak." 

"Would  you  mind,"  she  said,  presently,  "if  I 
requested  you  to— to  let  me  walk  home  alone?  I 
wouldn't  ask  it,  but  it  really  is  best.  Some  things 
— our  meeting  like  this,  for  example — cannot  be  ex- 
plained to  certain  grades  of  minds." 

"Whatever  you  do,  whatever  you  suggest,  is 
right,"  he  said,  and  with  his  hat  in  hand  he  stood 
and  watched  her  descend  the  mountain  path.  When 
he  could  no  longer  see  her  he  sat  down  on  the  moss, 
his  eyes  on  the  valley  over  which  the  gray  veil  of 
dusk  was  spreading.  His  soul  was  heavy — from  it 
oozed  actual  drops  of  agony. 

"What  can  God  mean  by  it?"  he  suddenly  cried, 
294 


NOBODY'S 

in  fierce  resentment.  "For  what  reason  are  we  tort- 
ured like  this  —  why,  why  has  she  been  made  to 
suffer,  to  hunger,  to  thirst  for  what  is  forever  with- 
held till,  young  and  soulful  as  she  is,  she  is  driven 
to  death  for  relief?" 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

HARTLEY  had  been  to  Lowndesville  to  spend 
the  day  with  Elwood,  and,  in  quite  low  spirits, 
was  returning  after  dark.  He  had  discussed  anew 
the  all-important  subject  with  his  friend,  and  neither 
of  them  was  any  nearer  a  solution  of  the  problem 
than  when,  in  such  deadly  earnest,  they  had  first 
taken  it  up.  They  had  both  finally  agreed  that  no 
profitable  step  could  be  taken  until  the  lips  of  Mam' 
Ansie  were  unsealed,  and  Hartley  had  heard  it  in 
no  little  dismay  from  Elwood  that,  since  the  General 
had  moved  back  to  his  old  home,  Mam'  Ansie  was 
more  desperately  bent  on  secrecy  than  at  any  other 
period  of  her  life.  Indeed,  Elwood  had  learned  of 
her  having  made  inquiries  at  the  railway  station 
in  regard  to  the  fare  to  New  Orleans,  where  it  seemed 
certain  that  she  had  decided  to  take  Celeste. 

Miss  Hartley  was  waiting  for  her  brother  on  the 
lawn,  and  when  he  had  dismounted  and  Pomp  had 
led  his  horse  away  she  said:  "I  have  two  pieces  of 
news  for  you.  A  telegram  came  for  you  from  New 
York.  I  opened  it  to  see  if  it  was  important  enough 
to  send  on  to  you  in  town.  It  is  from  your  bank. 
They  want  you  to  leave  on  the  morning  train  for 
Nashville  to  attend  to  some  matter  with  a  bank 

296 


NOBODY'S 

there.  You  will  understand  fully  when  you  read 
the  telegram.     I  left  it  on  your  table." 

"What  is  the  other  news?"  he  inquired.  "I  shall 
not  mind  the  trip  to  Nashville.  A  touch  of  busi- 
ness right  now  will  do  me  good." 

"The  other  was  a  verbal  message  old  Jake  brought 
from  General  Lowndes.  He  hopes  you  will  come 
over  and  see  him  this  evening." 

So  it  happened  that  Hartley  immediately  after 
supper  walked  down  the  road  to  the  old  Lowndes 
homestead.  Although  the  stars  were  shining,  the 
rusty  lamps  in  the  iron  holders  on  each  post  of  the 
wide  gate  of  the  drive  were  lighted.  The  walk  from 
the  smaller  gate  to  the  portico  steps  had  been  cov- 
ered with  fresh  gravel,  and  the  boxwood  which 
edged  each  side  of  the  walk  had  been  trimmed 
quite  after  the  old  square  fashion.  The  masonry 
of  the  terraces  had  been  repaired  and  the  summer- 
houses  put  in  order.  As  the  visitor  approached  the 
entrance,  he  noticed,  through  the  wide  open  door, 
that  the  suspended  hall-lamps,  with  their  sparkling 
cut-glass  pendants,  were  burning,  lighting  up  the 
full  width  and  depth  of  the  chamber,  the  walls  of 
which  had  been  kalsomined  anew. 

A  young  negro,  neatly  attired  in  black,  in  tall, 
white  collar,  and  cuffs  which  fairly  hid  his  hands, 
met  Hartley  at  the  door  and  bowed  him  into  the 
drawing-room.  This,  too,  had  been  restored,  and 
the  cool,  pungent  odor  of  lime  permeated  the  air. 
General  Lowndes  kept  him  waiting  a  few  minutes, 

297 


NOBODY'S 

then  the  visitor  heard  him  slowly  descending  the 
stairs  from  his  room  above. 

"Let  me  welcome  you  to  the  old  place,"  was  his 
cordial  greeting  as  he  came  into  the  room,  his  hand 
extended.  "It  seems  queer  to  me,  I  assure  you," 
he  added,  with  a  laugh.  "It  used  to  be  so  different. 
You  see,  I'm  the  only  one  now,  and  I  am  as  lonely 
as  Robinson  Crusoe  on  his  island.  I  have  plenty 
of  'men  Fridays/  but  they  don't  move  like  the 
clockwork  of  the  old  days.  Pray  be  seated;  you'll 
find  the  chair  in  the  bay-window  more  comfortable, 
for  the  breeze  blows  in  there." 

"I  am  glad  to  see  that  you  have  restored  the 
place,"  Hartley  said,  somewhat  awkwardly,  as  the 
two  took  seats  opposite  each  other.  "It  is  one  of 
the  finest  old  homes  I  have  seen  in  this  part  of  the 
South." 

The  servant  who  had  met  them  at  the  door  brought 
cigars  and  matches  on  a  tray,  and  left  it  on  an 
antique  stool  between  them.  The  General  courte- 
ously struck  a  match  and  held  it  to  the  young  man's 
cigar,  and  after  that  they  smoked  in  silence.  The 
old  gentleman  broke  the  pause  by  irrelevant  allusions 
to  this  or  that  improvement  he  had  instituted,  but, 
finally,  as  if  realizing  the  insincerity  of  his  circum- 
locution, he  broke  off  in  the  middle  of  the  recital 
of  some  details  about  the  work  on  his  stables  and 
the  purchase  of  Kentucky  horses,  and  said,  frankly: 

"There  is  no  use  beating  about  the  bush  like  this. 
Gordon,  I  sent  for  you  because  I  am   lonely  and 

298 


NOBODY'S 

want  your  companionship.     I  don't  think  I  ever 
felt  so  isolated  in  all  my  life." 

"lam  glad  you  did,"  Hartley  said,  quite  happily, 
"for  I  get  lonely  myself  over  at  my  sister's.  The 
country  is  terribly  monotonous  when  one  is  not 
used  to  it." 

"And  you  are  from  the  busiest  of  busy  cities," 
the  old  man  returned,  and  thereupon  he  sighed.  He 
was  silent  for  a  moment,  and  then  he  said,  abruptly: 
"I've  simply  changed  my  bushes,  Gordon.  I'm 
beating  at  others  now,  and  poor  scrubs  they  are.  I 
may  as  well  be  frank.  I'm  in  trouble.  It  seems  to 
me  that  my  life  has  been  trouble  from  the  beginning, 
and  it  would  seem  that  I  had  earned  a  rest,  but  the 
trouble  that  is  on  me  now  is  the  heaviest  that  ever 
came  to  me." 

"I  am  very  sorry  to  hear  it,  General,"  the  young 
man  said,  with  a  shock  of  roused  sympathy.  "I 
am  both  sorry  and  surprised." 

The  old  soldier's  voice  shook  with  emotion  when  he 
began  again,  and  Hartley  could  see  the  withered 
hand  which  held  the  cigar  quivering  on  his  knee,  as 
if  its  owner  had  lost  control  of  its  muscles  and  nerves. 

"There  is  not,  I'm  sure,"  the  General  gulped,  "a 
man  or  woman  alive  to-day  to  whom  I  could  un- 
burden myself  as  I  feel  like  doing  to  you.  It  may 
be  because  you  are  so  like  your  father,  and  if  he  were 
here  I'd  tell  him.  I'd  tell  him,  Gordon,  of  the 
saddest,  keenest,  most  unexpected  blow  I  ever  re- 
ceived." 

299 


NOBODY'S 

Dead  silence  filled  the  big  room.  Hartley,  in  no 
little  astonishment,  waited  for  his  host  to  calm  him- 
self sufficiently  to  resume.  He  was  calmer  in  a 
moment.  He  drew  himself  up  erectly.  Hartley 
had  a  mental  picture  of  him  in  an  officer's  gray  coat, 
with  gilt-edged  epaulets  and  C.  S.  A.  buttons,  as, 
in  a  cloud  of  gun- smoke,  he  sat  with  drawn  sword 
on  the  back  of  a  plunging  horse  shouting  commands 
in  a  clear,  firm  voice. 

"Gordon,  my  boy,  when  you  did  me  the  honor 
and  pleasure  to  dine  with  me  at  my  town-house  I 
indignantly  upbraided  certain  individuals  for  saying 
certain  discreditable  things  about — against  the  per- 
sonal character  of  my  poor  dead  son." 

"Yes,  yes,  of  course  I  remember."  Hartley  was 
astonished  at  the  renewal  of  the  subject,  and  his  tone 
betrayed  it. 

"You  may  well  be  surprised,"  the  General  said, 
eying  him  sadly,  "for  I  am  going  to  tell  you  to- 
night that  the  thing  which  I  took  for  the  invention  of 
hell  itself  was  the  truth — nothing  more  nor  less  than 
the  truth." 

Hartley  felt  his  antagonism  leap  within  him  like  a 
beast  roused  from  its  lair. 

"You  can't  mean  that  you  think  the — the  lie  as 
to  his — his  intimacy  with — " 

"You  have  it,  my  boy.  As  horrible  as  it  is — as 
maddening,  as  contradictory  to  what  I  thought  my 
son  to  be,  I  am  obliged  to  accept  it." 

"But  it  can't  be — it  simply  can't  be  so!"  Hartley 
300 


NOBODY'S 

was  fighting  from  a  point  of  view  invisible  to  the 
senses  of  the  other,  and  his  whole  being  was  up  in 
arms.  No  one  could  have  known  better  than  he 
what  the  acceptance  of  that  theory  would  mean  to 
him  and  Celeste. 

"Yes,  my  boy,  I  have  met  the  girl,  and  the  fact 
that  God  let  my  old,  worn-out  heart  continue  to  beat 
afterward  is  a  proof  of  the  cruelty  of  Heaven  itself. 
Gordon,  I  saw  my  poor  boy's  child.  She  is  the  liv- 
ing image  of  what  my  dear  wife,  his  mother,  was  in 
girlhood.  Her  eyes,  her  face,  her  hair,  even  her 
beautiful  voice  was  the  same." 

' '  You  mean — you  mean —  ?' '  Hartley  was  simply 
muttering  words  to  gain  time  for  the  action  toward 
which  he  felt  himself  driven  by  some  great  irresistible 
force  made  up  of  all  that  was  manly  in  him. 

"I  mean  that  I  am  convinced.  I  talked  with  her 
for  a  long  time  a  week  ago,  and  again  yesterday.  I 
waited  for  her  to  come  out  the  last  time  and  pur- 
posely intercepted  her.  Now  I  know  what  you 
meant  when  you  said  you  and  your  sister  were  in- 
terested in  her,  for  she  is  the  most  captivating  child 
I  ever  saw.  She  is  beautiful,  trusting,  helpless — 
and  wonderful — the  most  wonderful  creature  I  ever 
saw.  My  heart  is  torn  to  shreds.  Last  night  I  heard 
some  one  playing  on  a  violin  across  the  fields.  I 
don't  think  I  ever  heard  sweeter  music,  and,  when 
I  inquired  who  it  was,  Mam'  Jennie  told  me  it  was 
Celeste.  She  is  a  genius,  I  am  sure  of  it.  Her 
grandmother  had  wonderful  talent  that  way.     I  say 

301 


NOBODY'S 

'grandmother,'  and  I  do  it  with  my  heart  full  of 
respect  to  the  dead,  for  I  can  realize  no  racial  taint 
in  this  sweet  child's  blood.  God  above  may  be 
treating  me  like  this  for  some  inscrutable  reason. 
When  I  think  of  this  girl  I  actually  feel  all  the  old 
prejudices  roll  away  from  me.  I  cry  out  for  her 
love  and  companionship,  and  am  blind  and  deaf  to 
past  customs  and  theories.  I  am  a  changed  man. 
She  is  the  last  blood-tie  I  have  on  earth,  and  I 
yearn  for  her.  An  unfortunate  man  I  once  knew 
stood  over  the  grave  of  his  colored  mistress,  and  in 
tears  made  a  public  confession  that  he  was  the  father 
of  her  sons.  I  hated  the  sight  of  him  afterward,  and 
never  spoke  to  him  again,  but  now  I  know  what  it 
meant.  It  was  the  cry  of  blood  to  blood.  If  poor 
Cary  had  lived  he  would  have  cared  for  this  pitiful 
child,  and  I  must  take  his  place.  But  this  isn't  all, 
Gordon.  I  am  obliged  to  say  something  which  no 
doubt  will  sound  to  you  far  more  intimate  than  any- 
thing I  have  already  said.  Pardon  me  if  I  am  mak- 
ing a  mistake,  but  since  I've  met  her  I  recall  certain 
tones  of  your  voice  in  speaking  of  her,  a  certain  con- 
scious look  in  the  eyes,  and,  feeling  toward  her  as  I 
do,  there  is  a  delicate  matter  between  us  that  must 
be  settled  now." 

"Between  us?"  Hartley  stared  in  dumb  per- 
plexity. 

"Yes,  yes,  for  I  am  not  sure  that  you  are  not  at- 
tracted to  her.  No  man  could  help  it.  I  have  acci- 
dentally heard  from  the  servants  that  you  have  been 

302 


NOBODY'S 

seen  with  her  in  lonely  places  more  than  once.  You 
are  the  son  of  my  best  friend,  and  I  love  you  for 
yourself,  but  I  am  obliged  to  warn  you — " 

"To  warn  me  ?"  Hartley's  blood  seemed  to  freeze 
in  his  veins.  He  had  grasped  what  was  coming, 
and  yet  prayed  that  he  might  be  mistaken. 

"To  be  plain,  Gordon,  there  is  only  one  way  in 
which  a  young  man  like  you  would  be  likely  to  think 
of  a  poor,  defenseless  creature  like  her,  and  I  am 
driven  to  say  to  you  that  I  sincerely  hope  for  my 
sake  that — " 

Hartley  sprang  to  his  feet  and  towered  above  the 
old  man  like  a  strong  tree  shaken  by  a  storm.  His 
fist  was  clenched,  his  face  purple. 

"If  you  were  not  as  old  as  you  are  I'd  not  let  you 
hint  at  a  thing  like  that!"  he  panted.  "I've  not  in- 
sulted her  by  word  or  act,  but  you  are  doing  so  now. 
I  love  her  with  the  purest  love  that  ever  sprang  from 
a  man's  soul,  and  I  respect  her  as  I  do  my  sister. 
She  is  not  what  you  think  she  is.  She  is  as  white 
as  you  or  I.  Not  a  drop  of  questionable  blood  flows 
in  her  veins.  She  is  not  your  son's  daughter!  I 
would  have  told  you  the  truth  long  ago,  but  I  was 
afraid  it  would  kill  you.  I  don't  care  what  it  does 
now,  for  she  has  to  have  simple  justice,  and  she  shall 
have  it  at  your  hands." 

"You  mean — my  God,  man!  you  mean — "  The 
General  was  on  his  feet  and  the  two  men  stood  face 
to  face. 

"I  mean  that  she  is  your  daughter's  child." 
303 


NOBODY'S 

"My  dau — are  you  crazy  ?"  The  words  rattled  in 
the  dry  throat  of  the  old  man.  He  gasped  like  a 
fish  drawn  from  the  water,  clutching  at  his  neck- 
cloth with  fingers  which  squirmed  like  tangled 
worms. 

"Yes,  hers — and  Martin  Rawson's." 

"You  lie!"  The  General  drew  back  to  strike 
Hartley  in  the  face,  but  the  young  man  caught  his 
wrists  and  forced  him  down  into  his  chair,  and,  still 
holding  him,  he  went  on,  fiercely,  passionately: 

"I  am  not  lying.  I  can  prove  my  statement  to 
my  own  satisfaction,  at  least,  in  a  number  of  ways. 
There  is  only  one  way  to  satisfy  you,  and  that  is  for 
you  to  get  the  truth  from  Mam'  Ansie.  She  is  holding 
it  back  in  fear  of  you.  Convince  her  that  she  is  in 
no  danger,  and  she  will  talk.  Your  son  discovered 
the  truth,  and  that  is  why  he  killed  the  girl's  father." 

"You  lie — you  lie— you  lie  like  a  coward  against 
the  honor  of  a  dead  woman !"  The  General,  his  hands 
now  released,  raised  them  to  his  face  and  covered 
it.  "Leave  me!  If  you  have  the  instincts  of  a 
gentleman,  leave  me!  God  knows  you  have  said 
enough.     I  can't  defend  either  myself  or  my  dead." 

"I  am  going."  Hartley's  voice  had  softened  as 
he  looked  down  on  the  broken  man.  "I  spoke 
hastily,  but  you  insulted  the  purest  creature  that 
ever  drew  breath  in  hinting  that  I  might  even  be 
able  to  take  advantage  of  her  misfortune.  The 
man  does  not  live  who  could  endanger  her.  I  love 
her  as  purely  as  you  loved  her  grandmother.     I  love 

3°4 


NOBODY'S 

her  more  desperately,  for  all  the  forces  of  hell  have 
combined  to  overthrow  her.  You  are  the  only  man 
on  earth  who  can  rescue  her  from  a  living  death. 
Do  your  duty.  Go  to  Mam'  Ansie.  Show  her  that 
you  mean  no  harm  to  her,  and  she  will  convince  you 
that  what  I  say  is  the  truth.  When  you  do  that,  I 
know  you  will  act  as  an  honorable  man  should.' ' 

"Leave  me — leave  me,  for  God's  sake,  leave  me!" 
Gasping  and  fairly  frothing  at  the  mouth,  the  Gen- 
eral grimly  pointed  to  the  door. 

Hartley  hesitated  a  moment,  and  then  without 
another  word  he  turned  from  the  room  and  passed 
out  into  the  starlight. 


CHAPTER  XXX 

THROUGH  the  remainder  of  that  night  General 
Lowndes  walked  the  floor  of  his  room,  or  de- 
scended the  stairs  time  after  time  to  pace  back  and 
forth  on  the  portico,  or  up  and  down  the  walk  from 
the  steps  to  the  gate.  He  prayed;  he  swore;  he 
threatened;  he  wept.  Once  he  crept  through  the 
tangle  of  undergrowth  to  the  family  burial-ground 
back  of  the  mansion,  and  in  the  starlight  stood 
trying  to  read,  first  with  his  eyes,  and  then  by  the 
sense  of  touch,  the  names  graven  on  the  gray  monu- 
ments. He  knelt  on  the  mound  over  his  son's  re- 
mains, and  pleaded  with  him  aloud. 

"I'm  coming,  Cary,"  he  sobbed.  "There  is  no 
place  for  me  here — there  never  has  been  since  you 
left  me  helpless  and  alone." 

Creeping  back  to  his  chamber,  he  threw  himself 
down  on  his  bed,  but  not  to  sleep.  Body  and  soul 
he  was  racked  as  man  had  never  been  racked  before. 
Early  morning  found  him  in  the  great  dining-room 
dumbly  waiting  for  the  servant  to  prepare  his 
coffee.  He  was  at  the  front  gate  an  hour  later, 
when  Hartley,  in  a  buggy  driven  by  Pomp,  passed 
on  the  way  to  Lowndesville,  whence  the  young  man 
was  to  take  the  train  for  Nashville.    The  General 

306 


NOBODY'S 

stared  straight  at  Hartley,  who  touched  his  hat 
respectfully,  but  made  no  sort  of  return  for  the 
civility.  It  was  a  positive  cut,  but  Hartley  looked 
for  nothing  else. 

Later  in  the  morning  General  Lowndes  strolled 
down  into  the  meadow.  There  was  a  vague,  unde- 
fined hope  kindling  in  his  breast  that  Celeste  might 
cross  his  path.  His  thoughts  were  in  a  seething 
chaos,  out  of  which  Hartley's  last  words  came 
hurtling  with  harsh  insistency;  but  still  he  regarded 
the  girl  as  the  daughter  of  his  son,  and  now  in  his 
misery  he  felt  vaguely  that  she  alone  in  all  the 
world  could  comfort  him,  if  comfort  could  be  had 
after  such  a  deadening  blow  to  his  pride.  Presently 
his  old  heart  actually  bounded,  for,  with  a  sketch- 
book in  her  lap,  he  beheld  Celeste  as  she  sat  on  the 
bank  of  a  clear  brook  in  the  shade  of  a  big  oak. 
There  was  a  soothing  quality  in  her  welcoming  smile 
that  was  the  best  of  balm  to  his  rasped  sensitiveness. 
The  weight  of  morbid  gloom  that  had  been  on  him 
seemed  to  lift.  Smiling  back  at  her,  he  seated  him- 
self on  the  turf  at  her  feet,  and,  taking  off  his  hat,  ho 
wiped  his  perspiring  brow  and  gazed  at  her,  wonder- 
ing what  could  be  the  source  of  her  all-pervading 
charm.  With  the  unstudied  artlessness  of  a  pleased 
child  she  showed  him  the  sketch  she  was  making; 
and  he  looked  at  the  penciled  lines,  curves,  and 
shadings  through  a  blur  that  hung  before  his  sight 
like  a  curtain  of  gauze.  How  queer,  he  said  to  him- 
self, that  here  in  her  presence  all  the  nightmare 
21  3°7 


NOBODY'S 

from  which  he  had  suffered  had  vanished !  For  the 
moment  she  seemed  to  be,  in  actuality,  the  bride  he 
had  brought  so  young  from  her  own  home  in  Vir- 
ginia to  his  there  across  the  meadow.  He  had  seen 
his  young  wife  sit  in  just  that  way  on  the  grass, 
with  just  that  tilt  to  her  bonny  head,  that  winsome 
glow  on  her  face,  that  thoughtful  pursing  of  the 
lips  and  knitting  of  her  sunny  brows.  But  the 
taint — the  taint!  The  General  seemed  to  wake  as 
from  a  shock.  Who  had  declared  in  a  voice  of 
thunder  that  there  was  no  taint?  Why,  Gordon 
Hartley  had,  and  he  had  done  it  in  the  tone  of  a 
gentleman  of  the  old  regime  who  had  been  bitterly 
insulted  by  an  equal.  If  there  was  a  taint,  then 
why  the  young  man's  resentment?  And  what  was 
more  vital,  the  old  man  found  himself  staring  at  the 
girl  with  widening  eyes — if  there  was  a  taint,  why 
did  it  not  show  itself?  Why  had  he,  down  in  the 
deepest  depths  of  himself,  failed  to  sense  it?" 

"Have  you  been  ill?"  Celeste  suddenly  inquired, 
eying  him  attentively. 

"No,"  he  responded,  slowly;   "why  do  you  ask?" 

She  hesitated  reflectively.  "Because  you  look 
a  little  paler  than  you  did  the  other  day." 

"I  think  it  is  not  physical,"  he  said,  lightly.  "I 
worry  at  times  and  lose  sleep." 

"Oh,  I  see!"  She  went  on  sketching,  and  with 
worshipful  eyes  he  watched  the  reincarnation  of  his 
young  wife's  tapering  fingers  as  they  deftly  guided 
the  pencil.     He  gulped;    his  emotion  rose  within 

308 


NOBODY'S 

him.  His  throat  felt  tight.  The  sunlit  scene  tan- 
talized him.  A  thousand  sprites  of  the  past  danced 
on  the  tips  of  the  tall  grass.  They  danced  about  her, 
hovering  over  her  and  strewing  flowers  at  her  feet. 

"I  have  heard  my  young  fr — I've  heard  Gordon 
Hartley  speak  of — of  having  met  you,"  General 
Lowndes  suddenly  surprised  himself  by  saying,  and 
he  saw  Celeste  lift  her  arched  brows  and  the  pink 
glow  deepen  in  her  cheeks.  "I  wonder  if  you  would 
mind  an  old  man's  saying  that  you  ought  to  be  very 
careful.  Young  men  are  as  dangerous  now  as  they 
ever  were." 

A  blended  look  of  pain  and  surprise  dawned  in  her 
face. 

"No  one  could  be  in  danger  with  him,"  she  said, 
tartly,  a  rebuking  flash  beneath  her  lashes  as  her 
eyes  were  sharply  leveled  on  him. 

"You  think  him  thoroughly — honorable?"  It  was 
a  doubtful  query  of  which  the  old  man  was  promptly 
ashamed,  and  why  he  hardly  knew,  for  he  still  believed 
in  his  rage  against  the  traducer  of  his  daughter. 

"I  can't  see  how  any  one  could  possibly  doubt  it 
for  an  instant."  She  frowned  darkly,  her  breast 
rose,  fell,  and  quivered.  "I  have  never  met  other 
young  men,  and  so  I  have  no  standard  to  decide  by. 
I  have  read  of  ideal  heroes  in  novels,  but  I  have 
never  read  of  one  so  brave  and  noble  as  he.  I  don't 
think  God  ever  made  a  truer  or  a  better  man.  I'd 
trust  my  life  in  his  hands." 

"Perhaps  you  may  be  right — you  may — you  may,11 

309 


NOBODY'S 

the  General  heard  himself  admitting,  and  he  won- 
dered what  had  come  over  his  mood  which  so  recently- 
had  been  all  bitterness  against  the  man  in  question. 

"I  know  I  am  right,"  the  girl  affirmed  impulsively. 
"I've  seen  him  tested.  I've  had  the  sweetest  test 
of  his  manhood  that  ever  a  girl  had." 

"You  say  you  have?"  the  General  queried. 
"Will  you  tell  me  about  it?" 

Celeste  gravely  shook  her  head.  "You  mustn't 
ask  me,"  she  faltered.  ' '  I've  said  more  than  I  wished, 
but  I  could  not  bear  to  hear  you  speak  of  him  as  you 
did  just  now." 

A  moment  later  he  was  wending  his  troubled  way 
homeward  through  the  glaring  sun.  Suddenly  he 
paused  and  sent  a  bewildered  glance  across  the  fields 
to  the  negro  quarter  at  Fairview'.  Why  put  it  off? 
he  asked  himself,  as  cold,  premonitory  thrills  ran 
through  him.  Why  not  go  straight  to  Mam'  Ansie, 
as  Hartley  had  suggested,  as  Hartley  had  all  but 
dared  him  to  do,  and  have  a  talk  with  her.  She 
had  always  been  afraid  of  him;  perhaps  if  he  as- 
sured her  of  his  good-will,  his  harmlessness,  she 
might  speak  freely  about  Celeste,  and  it  was  plain 
that  the  mystery  could  be  borne  no  longer.  And  it 
was  a  mystery.  The  child  was  either — and  his  heart 
stood  still  over  the  indisputable  logic  of  the  propo- 
sition— either  the  offspring  of  his  son  or  his  daughter. 
One  or  the  other  was  responsible  for  her  existence, 
and,  after  all,  what  did  it  matter  ? 


CHAPTER  XXXI 

NOW  taking  brisk  strides — strides  to  which  he 
had  not  been  accustomed  for  years,  the  General 
soon  found  himself  near  Mam'  Ansie's  cottage.  She 
was  standing  at  the  front  gate,  shading  her  eyes  from 
the  glare  of  the  sun  and  gazing  down  the  road  as  if 
looking  for  Celeste,  when  her  glance  fell  upon  him 
as  he  suddenly  turned  the  fence  corner.  With  a 
startled  little  scream  of  dismay  she  moved  hurriedly 
back  to  the  house  and  went  in.  She  had  left  the 
door  open,  but  when  she  saw  that  he  was  turning 
into  the  yard  she  closed  it.  As  he  came  up  the  little 
walk,  calling  out  to  her  in  gentle  tones,  he  heard  her 
trying  to  put  a  key  into  the  lock.  Realizing  what 
she  was  doing,  and  hoping  to  stop  her,  he  quickened 
his  step  and  heard  the  key  fall  to  the  floor.  It  was 
too  late.  She  could  not  recover  it  in  time  to  shut 
him  out,  and,  uttering  moans  of  terror,  she  fled  to 
her  own  room  in  the  rear. 

He  entered  the  little  hall  and  stood  calling  out  to 
her  not  to  be  afraid,  but  her  screams  and  groans 
drowned  his  voice.  She  had  closed  the  door  of  her 
room,  but  there  was  evidently  no  lock  or  bar  upon  it, 
for  he  heard  the  frail  latch  rattling  as  if  she  were 
holding  it  down. 

311 


NOBODY'S 

Advancing  to  the  door,  he  rapped,  and  said,  softly: 

"Mam'  Ansie,  I  won't  hurt  you.  Don't  be  afraid. 
I  wouldn't  harm  you  for  the  world !" 

"Have  mercy,  mercy,  mercy,  ole  marster!"  he 
heard  her  crying.  "Oh,  Gawd,  save  me!  I  ain't 
done  nothin' !" 

"Ansie,  Mammy  Ansie,  be  quiet  a  moment — 
listen!  See,  I'm  not  coming  in.  Open  the  door.  I 
have  something  to — " 

"Mercy!  Mercy!  Oh,  marster,  spare  me!  I'm 
des  er  po'  ole  crazy  nigger  'oman  dat  done  nuss  yo' 
chillun,  en  love  'em  livin'  en  daid." 

"All  right!  I  know! — I  know!"  he  said,  even 
more  gently.  "I  only  want  to  see  you  about 
Celeste." 

"She  ain't  heer,  marster!  Fo'  Gawd,  she  ain't!" 
The  very  sound  of  the  girl's  name  added  to  the 
woman's  alarm.  "She  gone  clean  off  on  de  train 
dis  mawnin'  ter  de  convent  in  New  Orleans.  I  done 
sent  her.     Now  go;    now  go,  marster." 

The  import  of  this  subterfuge  flashed  on  him,  and 
he  determined  to  make  use  of  it. 

"Why,  I've  just  been  talking  to  her  down  in  the 
meadow,"  he  said,  soothingly,  his  lips  close  to  the 
crack  of  the  door.  "Don't  you  see  if  I  had  wanted 
to  harm  her  I  would  have  done  it  then  ?  I  want  to 
see  you  for  her  good." 

"Oh,  marster,  marster!  please  go  'way,  suh! 
Please,  please,  kind,  good  marster !  Ansie  ain't  done 
you  no  harm." 

312 


NOBODY'S 

Putting  his  hand  on  the  latch,  he  suddenly  pushed 
the  door  open.  This  drove  her  across  the  room  to 
her  bed,  where  she  knelt  and  hid  her  face  in  the 
covers,  crying  and  pleading  in  a  paroxysm  of  fright. 
He  simply  stood  at  the  little  window  and  waited  for 
the  storm  to  spend  itself.  Her  cries  and  groans  con- 
tinued, but  presently,  as  if  to  see  what  he  was  about, 
she  glanced  furtively  at  him.  He  forced  a  pacific 
smile  and  said  as  gently  as  was  in  his  power: 

"Be  ashamed,  Mammy,  ashamed!  Don't  you  see 
I  am  not  going  to  kill  you?  I  have  no  pistol  or 
knife;  besides,  your  old  master  is  weak  and  frail. 
You  could  crush  him  between  your  fingers  like  a 
gnat.  Hush!  hush!  Be  quiet  now!  I  only  want  to 
talk  to  you.  You've  been  running  from  me  for 
years,  you  must  not  do  it  any  more.  I  want  to  be 
your  friend." 

"Oh,  Gawd,  oh,  Gawd,  marster,  please  go  'way!" 
she  panted,  her  features  distorted,  her  eyes  bulging 
from  their  red  sockets.  "Oh,  I  knowed  you  was 
comin'  soon  or  late.  Young  miss's  sperit  done  warn 
me  all  dese  years.  She  couldn't  lie  in  'er  grave 
easy  kase  she  know  what  you  gwine  ter  do." 

"Listen,  listen,  Mammy."  He  sat  down  on  the 
edge  of  the  bed,  and  she  made  no  movement  to  leave, 
simply  staring  at  him  piteously  like  a  dumb  animal 
at  bay.  ' !  Mammy,  I  am  nearing  the  grave.  I'm  old 
and  weak.  I'm  tired  of  being  treated  this  way  by  an 
old  slave  and  faithful  servant.  I  want  your  friend- 
ship, and  so  I — " 

313 


NOBODY'S 

"My  Gawd,  is  dat  old  marster  talkin' ?  Is  dat 
him?     Lawd,  Lawd,  is  it  now?" 

"I've  come  to  you  for  help  and  advice — I  need 
you,  Mammy — I  need  you  badly." 

"Kin  dat  be  marster?"  she  cried,  her  great  mouth 
open,  her  lower  lip  wet  and  quivering.  "Kin  it? 
kin  it?     Lawd,  Lawd,  is  dat  him?" 

"Mammy,  I'm  sorry  for  Celeste.  I've  met  her  and 
talked  to  her  several  times.  She  is  a  sweet,  pretty 
girl.  She  needs  more  than  you  are  able  to  give  her, 
and  I  want  to  help  her,  but  I  must  know  something. 
You  must  come  right  out  and  tell  me — " 

"I  don't  know  nothin' —  My  Gawd,  what  I 
know?"  she  began  to  moan  again.  "I  done  tol'  all 
I  know  'en  here  you  come  axin'  me  questions.  What 
kin  got  in  you?  What  you  atter?  Who  done  sent 
you  ter  raise  'sturbance — everthing  done  settled  en 
all  over,  en  here  you  come — " 

"You  must  tell  me,  Ansie — you  must  tell  me 
who  Celeste's  father  was." 

"Me,  marster?  Me  tell  you  de  lak  er  dat?"  Her 
terror  seemed  to  melt  into  a  certain  degree  of  racial 
cunning.  She  made  a  feint  of  a  smile  that  was  a 
ghastly  grimace,  and  rose  and  brushed  her  skirt  at 
the  knee,  and  reached  out  for  the  back  of  a  chair, 
which  she  caught  and  leaned  upon.  "What  you 
come  axin'  me  er  thing  lak  dat  fer?  Don't  you 
know  no  unmarried  'oman  ain't  gwine  ter  talk,  open 
en  free,  'bout  de  lak  er  dat,  suh?" 

"I  must  know,  Mammy."  He  sat  with  his  hands 
3M 


NOBODY'S 

locked  between  his  knees.  "People  are  saying  that 
Celeste  looks  like  my  family." 

"Huh,  I  know  dey  do!"  she  sniffed;  "but  what 
er  dat,  suh?  What  dat  'mount  to?  Folks  kin  be 
like  folks  en  not  be — be  no  blood  kin  ter   um." 

"But  she  is  my  blood  kin,  Mammy.  I  cannot 
be  mistaken.     I  know  it;   I  know  it." 

"You  say  you  do,  marster;  huh,  now  dat  soun' 
powerful  funny  ter  me — it  sho'  do!  Huh,  I  say, 
mebby  yo'  eyesight  is  failin'  wid  yo'  ole  age,  Marse 
Cary." 

"Mammy,  you  shall  tell  me  the  truth.  You  are 
the  only  one  who  can  satisfy  me,  and  you  shall  tell 
me."  His  voice  sank  low.  He  cleared  his  throat 
and  went  to  her.  She  stood  as  if  hypnotized  by 
the  determined  and  yet  kindly  glare  of  his  eyes, 
and  allowed  him  to  lay  his  hand  on  her  shoulder. 
"Mammy,  is  Celeste  poor  Cary's  daughter?" 

By  her  very  quick  response,  the  flash  of  surprised 
indignation  in  her  eyes,  the  touch  of  horror  at  the 
mere  suggestion,  her  reply  carried  a  weight  and  a 
force  that  all  but  stunned  him. 

"No,  no,  no!"  she  retorted,  quickly.  "You  know 
Marse  Cary  wasn't — who,  dat  boy?  Why,  marster, 
how  could  he  be?  You  ort  ter  be  'shamed,  suh — 
'shamed!     My  Gawd,  how  could  he  be?" 

There'was  no  doubting  the  sincerity  of  her  answer. 
Indeed,  he  had  become  convinced  of  it  before  the 
words  had  died  on  her  lips.  He  had  read  it  in  her 
eyes.     Then,    then — he   stood   questioning   himself, 

3i5 


NOBODY'S 

what  about  the  resemblance  ?  What  of  that,  unless 
Gordon  Hartley  was  right?  To  the  old  man's  sur- 
prise he  felt  a  sudden  glow  of  tender  eagerness  in  the 
encroaching  conviction  that  the  uncouth  creature 
before  him  was  in  no  way  allied  to  the  charming 
girl  he  had  left  in  the  meadow.  He  sat  down  again 
and  remained  still  and  silent  so  long  that  Mam' 
Ansie  sank  into  her  chair  muttering  inarticulate 
apologies  for  taking  the  liberty  in  his  presence. 
Nothing  could  have  happened  more  effectually  to 
assuage  the  panic  she  was  in,  for  he  sat  like  a  sad, 
helpless  dreamer,  his  gaze  on  vacancy. 

"Marster,  marster,  what  kin  got  in  you,  sun?" 
the  woman  plucked  up  courage  to  ask.  "I  know 
in  reason  you  ain't  never  think  Marse  Cary  was  dat 
sort  er  young  man.  Why,  marster,  he  was  de  best 
en  most  'specfulest  young  man  ter  white  en  black  dat 
ever  lived." 

"I  really  did  not  think  it  long,  Mammy,"  the 
General  said,  as  if  awaking  from  a  dream.  "But 
Ansie,  Mammy,  you  must  be  good  and  kind  and 
help  me  about  something.  You  have  got  a  wrong 
idea  about  me.  You  think  I  would  harm  you  if  I 
knew  the  truth  about  Celeste,  but  I  wouldn't."  He 
reflected  a  moment  while  her  red-rimmed  eyes  were 
growing  large  in  a  stare  of  wonder,  then  he  finished. 
"I  already  know  the  truth.  Mammy,  I  know  that 
Dorothy  and  Martin  Rawson — " 

"Oh,  Gawd,  dar  you  go  ergin!  Marster,  marster — " 

"I  know  Dorothy  was  Celeste's  mother,"  the  Gen- 
316 


NOBODY'S 

eral  broke  in,  firmly.  "I  know  it,  and  I  am  prepared 
for  it.  Celeste  is  my  granddaughter,  and  as  such 
I  must  give  her  my  love  and  protection.     She — " 

With  a  groan  of  blended  alarm  and  thwarted 
effort,  the  woman  covered  her  face  with  her  hands 
and  rocked  back  and  forth  in  her  chair,  her  elbows 
on  her  fat  knees. 

"  You  say  dat,  marster  ?  You  say  dat,  en  it  ain't 
mek  you  mad?" 

"I'm  too  old  and  weak  and  spent  to  be  mad  over 
anything,  Ansie,"  the  General  sighed.  "I  am  only 
anxious  to  do  my  duty,  and  you  ought  to  do  yours. 
You  have  cared  well  for  the  child,  better  than  any 
one  else  would  or  could  have  done;  but  she  is  pure 
white,  and  she  must  not  live  longer  as  she  is  doing. 
I  want  to  give  both  her  and  you  a  home.  She  has 
won  my  whole  heart.  I  want  her.  I  need  her. 
Why,  Mammy,  she  is  just  like  my  wife  was  when — " 

A  flood  of  tears  now  broke  from  Mam'  Ansie. 
Wiping  her  eyes  and  gazing  at  him  wildly,  she 
sobbed : 

"She  sho'  is — pine-blank  lak  'er!  Oh,  marster, 
what  you  gwine  ter  do  ter  me?  I  done  de  bes'  I 
could." 

"I'll  reward  you  to  the  best  of  my  ability,  for 
you've  been  faithful,  Ansie.  But  you  must  tell  me 
all  about  it,  now." 

After  a  long  pause  and  in  broken,  halting  tones 
she  finally  told  him  her  story,  and  master  and  former 
slave  sat  and  wept  together. 

3i7 


NOBODY'S 

"  Young  miss  must  'a'  been  out'n  er  haid  part  'er 
de  time  atter  de  baby  come,"  Ansie  said.  "She  was 
constant  talkin'  'bout  de  awful  disgrace  she  fetch 
down  on  you-all  kase  young  marster  shot  Marse 
Rawson,  en  prevent  um  fum  marry  in*  lak  dey  done 
planned.  Dey  was  gwine  ter  leave  de  very  next 
night,  en  hat  everything  packed  raidy  when  young 
marster  come  home  en  ketch  up  wid  um.  When 
she  git  down  low  en  was  dying  uv  er  broke  heart, 
I  begged  en  begged  'er  ter  le'me  sen'  fer  er  doctor ; 
but  dough  me  en  Jennie  en  Jake  was  de  only  ones  dar 
ter  he'p,  she  might*  nigh  went  'stracted  when  she  tell 
us  not  ter  sen'  fer  'im.  She  say  ef  he  come  he'll  see 
de  baby,  en,  you  know,  nobody  but  des  us  fo'  knowed 
dat  Lessie  was  even  born.  So  we  hatter  give  in. 
Den  when  she  was  dyin'  she  scream  out  dat  she  done 
heer  you  down-sta'rs  comin'  ter  kill  de  baby,  en  we 
des  couldn't  quiet  'er.  Den  I  thought  er  suppin'  to 
give  'er  peace  er  mind,  en  I  tol'  'er,  I  did,  dat  ef 
anybody  come  I  gwine  ter  tell  um  de  chile  was 
mine — " 

"I  see,  I  see;  oh,  I  see  now!"  the  old  man  said, 
huskily.  "I  see,  and  you  were  not  to  blame,  An- 
sie." 

"Den  she  set  up  in  de  baid,  aldough  she  is  alraidy 
sheddin'  heaven-light  fum  'er  face,  en  she  tol'  us 
all  three  dat  ef  we  let  anybody  fin'  out  'bout  her  en 
de  baby  she  gwine  ter  rise  fum  de  grave  atter  she 
put  in  de  ground  en  ha'nt  us.  She  say  she  will 
walk  de  earth  ever'  night,  en  she  did,  marster — she 

318 


NOBODY'S 

did,  suh.  She  been  wid  me  guardin'  dat  chile  fum 
harm  all  dese  years." 

The  General  made  no  effort  to  disabuse  her  mind 
of  a  superstition  which  he  knew  to  be  too  deeply 
grounded  in  her  race  to  yield  to  any  argument.  He 
even  nodded  as  if  in  tacit  agreement,  and  added: 

"And  Dorothy  left  the  money  for  Celeste?" 

"Yasser,  en  I  kep'  it  hid.  It  mighty  nigh  all 
gone  now,  marster.  But  I  ain't  tech  de  jewel-box, 
suh.  She  say  de  diamonds  en  pearls  is  fer  de  baby 
when  she  come  in  'er  rights.  I'll  git  um  fer  you, 
suh,  but  I  hatter  wait  till  dark,  kase — " 

"Never  mind  now,"  he  said,  huskily,  "bring  them 
over  home.  You  must  both  live  there  after  this. 
We  must  make  a  queen  of  her  now,  Mammy.  She 
has  suffered  enough.  We'll  load  her  down  with 
pretty  things,  and — " 

The  latch  of  the  gate  clicked,  there  was  a  light 
step  on  the  walk.     Mam'  Ansie  started. 

"She's  coming,  marster — dat  her  now!" 

The  General  waved  his  hand  toward  the  door. 
"Go  tell  her  about  it  all,"  he  said,  "and  then  send 
her  here  to  me." 

The  woman  obeyed.  General  Lowndes  heard  low, 
excited  voices  on  the  porch.  Several  minutes 
passed,  then  Celeste  came  back  to  him.  There  was 
a  startled,  inquiring  stare  in  her  eyes,  and  she  ap- 
proached him  with  an  air  that  was  more  timid  than 
any  he  had  yet  seen  on  her.  Their  eyes  met.  He 
caught  her  hand  and  drew  her  down  upon  his  knee. 

319 


NOBODY'S 

Neither  spoke.  He  put  a  trembling  arm  about  her 
and  drew  her  close  against  his  breast.  She  saw  that 
he  was  trying  hard  to  restrain  his  tears.  Presently 
she  put  her  hands  on  his  face  and  stroked  it  and 
kissed  him  tenderly  and  gently.  Then  she  sat  still 
in  his  lap,  a  wondrous  glow  dawning  in  her  fair 
cheeks. 

"Are  you  glad,  Celeste?"  the  old  man  gulped. 
"Are  you  happy?" 

"Very,  very  happy,"  she  said,  under  her  breath. 


CHAPTER  XXXII 

HARTLEY  was  detained  in  Nashville  several 
days  longer  than  he  expected.  When  he 
reached  Lowndesville  one  afternoon  at  three  o'clock, 
he  saw  Elwood  waiting  for  him  at  the  station.  The 
lawyer  approached  him  with  a  confident  smile  on 
his  face. 

"You  can't  imagine  what  has  happened?"  he 
said,  drawing  Hartley  away  from  a  group  of  by- 
standers and  toward  a  buggy  in  which  Pomp  sat 
waiting  to  drive  him  to  the  plantation.  "Mam' 
Ansie  has  told  the  whole  story  to  the  General.  It 
is  exactly  as  you  thought  it  would  be." 

"And  Celeste — ?"     Hartley  went  no  further. 

"She's  the  happiest  creature  you  ever  saw." 

They  had  paused  several  paces  away  from  Pomp, 
that  their  talk  might  be  private,  and  the  lawyer's 
face  beamed  as  he  ran  on: 

"But  her  joy  can't  be  compared  to  the  General's. 
He  is  like  a  school-boy.  He  actually  danced  a  jig 
in  the  office  yesterday." 

"So  he  didn't  take  it  so  hard,  after  all,"  Hartley 
said,  reflectively. 

"Evidently  not.  He  can  talk  of  nothing  but 
Celeste  and  her  rare  beauty,  talent,  and  brains.    He 

321 


NOBODY'S 

swears  she  doesn't  resemble  the  Rawson  family  at 
all,  and,  moreover,  he  has  declared  against  her  use 
of  the  name.  He  has  made  all  arrangements  to 
give  her  the  legal  right  to  his  own.  He  has  made 
the  most  elaborate  will  I  ever  drew  up.  He  leaves 
everything  he  has  to  her,  and  you  know  he  has 
money  to  throw  at  cats.  I've  been  trying  to  locate 
you.  I  telegraphed,  but  the  office  at  the  other  end 
reported  that  you  were  at  none  of  the  Nashville 
hotels." 

"I  was  entertained  at  the  home  of  the  president 
of  the  bank  I  had  to  see."  Hartley's  face  glowed, 
and  he  spoke  as  if  he  were  scarcely  thinking  of  what 
he  was  saying. 

"I  was  tickled  to  death  over  it  on  your  account," 
El  wood  went  on,  sympathetically.  "You  see,  I 
well  understood  how  your  heart  was  involved,  and, 
now  that  all  obstacles  are  removed,  there  is  nothing 
between  you  and  perfect  happiness.  I  certainly  con- 
gratulate you,  old  chap.  You  are  the  luckiest  man 
alive." 

Hartley's  brow  contracted  and  his  face  grew  grave. 

"You  mustn't  make  a  mistake,"  he  faltered,  his 
eyes  averted.  "Of  course,  I've  been  open  with  you 
and  let  you  know  how  deeply  I  myself  am  concerned, 
still  I  must  say  that  I  have  not  had  any  actual  rea- 
son at  all  for  thinking  my  —  my  feeling  was  re- 
ciprocated." 

"Oh,  really,"  Elwood's  voice  fell.     "I  thought—" 

"She  has  never  encouraged  me  in  the  slightest," 
322 


NOBODY'S 

Hartley  answered.  "I  was  so  deeply  concerned 
over  her  troubles  and  the  importance  of  aiding  her 
that  I  really  failed  to  properly  weigh  my  chances. 
Old  man,  I  could  not  win  the  heart  of  a  girl  like  that. 
We  have  been  friends  in  a  way,  but  she  has  checked 
every  impulse  of  mine  toward  anything  of  the  sort. 
She  is  a  very  unusual  girl,  and  she  will  not  give  her 
heart  to  a  usual  sort  of  man.  She  is  a  genius;  she 
has  ideals  of  the  highest,  and  I  am  afraid  I  fall 
below  her  standard.  She  is  particular  in  all  things, 
and  she  will  be  especially  so  in  a  matter  as  impor- 
tant as  that.  I  can't,  somehow,  picture  her  as  car- 
ing deeply  for  any  man,  much  less  myself.  I  am 
glad  she  is  happy,  but  you  must  not  associate  her 
name  and  mine  together  so  freely.  I  could  give 
you  many  reasons  for  this  doubt  of  mine,  but  I  shall 
not  do  so  now." 

"You  are  blue,  old  man — unfair  to  yourself," 
Elwood  gently  urged.  "There  is  no  reason  in  the 
world  why  she  should  not  feel  toward  you  as  you  do 
toward  her." 

"Humph!"  Hartley's  exclamation  was  a  mor- 
bid, despondent  one.  "I  am  the  only  young  man 
she  has  known  at  all  well  so  far.  Do  you  think  as 
rare  a  creature  as  she  is  would  happen  to  care  deeply 
for  the  first  man  she  meets?  She  is  young,  an 
heiress;  the  whole  of  life  lies  ahead  of  her.  She 
will  meet  a  great  many  men  in  the  future,  and  per- 
haps make  a  choice  as  all  women  do,  but — "  Hart- 
ley waved  his  hand  dejectedly.  "Never  mind,  old 
22  323 


NOBODY'S 

chap,"  he  added,  ''she  has  secured  her  rights,  God 
bless  her,  and  that  is  joy  enough  even  for  me." 

Reaching  the  plantation,  Hartley  found  his  sister 
expecting  him.     She  sat  alone  in  the  library. 

"I  see  Mr.  Elwood  has  told  you  the  news."  She 
smiled  as  she  read  his  face.  "Isn't  it  simply 
glorious?  And  it  was  what  you  and  I  guessed  in 
advance.  I  am  just  back  from  the  General's  house. 
You  would  simply  be  entranced  by  it  all.  Celeste 
and  her  grandfather  go  about  hand  in  hand  like 
two  children.  I  actually  think  he  is  too  happy  to 
sleep.  He  has  her  playing  the  piano  or  her  violin 
half  the  time.  She  is  an  actual  wonder.  She 
served  tea  to  us  this  afternoon  at  an  old-fashioned 
table  in  the  prettiest,  most  gracious  manner  I  ever 
saw.  It  was  all  like  a  dream  of  the  past.  Tears 
were  in  my  eyes  half  the  time — glad,  happy  tears. 
An  outsider  could  never  have  guessed  that  she  has 
been  through  what  she  has.  She  is  like  a  young 
princess  just  out  of  a  strict  young  ladies'  school. 
Oh,  brother,  I  am  especially  happy  on  your  account." 

"My  account?" 

"Yes,  of  course,  you  could  not,  even  if  you  had 
not  admitted  it  to  me,  hide  the  fact  that  you  are 
dead  in  love  with  her." 

She  saw  him  drop  his  eyes,  a  pained  expression  lay 
on  his  strong  lips.  "I  don't  deny  anything,"  he 
said,  "except  this,  and  that  is  that  I  have  abso- 
lutely no  ground  at  all  for  presuming  to  hope — " 

"Why,  brother,  I  thought — I  felt — I  was  quite 

324 


NOBODY'S 

sure  that — "  Miss  Hartley  was  regarding  him  now 
almost  with  a  look  of  consternation. 

"You  were  leaping  without  looking,"  he  said, 
dejectedly. 

"Oh,  I'm  so  sorry,  and  yet,"  she  insisted,  en- 
couragingly, "there  is  no  one  else  in  the  way;  she 
has  met  no  one  else,  and  you  and  she  have  seemed — " 

"I  have  met  her  more  than  you  are  aware  of,"  her 
brother  took  her  up.  "We  have  had  many  long 
talks.  I  am  sure  she  has  high  ideals.  To  be  frank, 
there  were  times  when  I  came  near  speaking  out 
openly,  but,  as  if  actually  frightened,  she  always 
checked  me  and  gave  me  to  understand  by  her 
manner  that  I  was  on  forbidden  ground.". 

"  It  is  true,"  Miss  Hartley  said,  with  some  despond- 
ency on  her  own  side,  "that  since  this  thing  has  hap- 
pened she  has  not  seemed  to  include  you  in  it 
exactly.  I  would  not  say  this,  but  I  want  you  to  be 
prepared  for  disappointment  if  it  has  to  come.  This 
afternoon  I  brought  up  your  name,  and  I  remember 
now  that  she  really  did  not  seem  as  much  interest- 
ed as  I  thought  she  would  be.  After  all,  the  only 
reason  I  ever  had  for  thinking  she  was  interested  in 
you  was — was  the  time  she  swooned  when  she  heard 
of  your  release  from  that  mountain  mob." 

"She  was  under  an  enormous  nervous  strain," 
Hartley  heavily  explained.  "She  was  blaming  her- 
self— holding  herself  responsible  to  you  for  the 
trouble  I  was  in.  She  fairly  worships  you — and 
when  the  strain  was  off  she  fainted,  that's  all.     You 

325 


NOBODY'S 

had  no  ground  whatever  for  imagining  that  it  meant 
anything  in — in  my  favor." 

"The  General  is  your  friend,  at  all  events,"  Miss 
Hartley  said,  encouragingly.  "He  has  been  over 
three  times  asking  when  you'd  be  back.  He  says 
he  has  an  apology  to  make  to  you.  I  told  him  just 
now  that  if  you  got  here  this  afternoon  we'd  run 
over  this  evening." 

"And  he  wanted  us  to  come?"  Hartley  was 
thinking  with  some  dismay  of  his  parting  words  with 
the  old  gentleman  and  the  cut  he  had  received  the 
following  morning. 

"Oh  yes,  and  he  seemed  quite  anxious  about  it. 
He  brought  it  up  several  times." 

"And — "  Hartley  hesitated,  avoiding  his  sister's 
eyes. 

"Celeste?  How  could  you  expect  her  to  extend 
invitations  so  soon  ?  She  is  young  and  shy.  I  think 
she  is  especially  shy  in  regard  to  you.  I  suppose  it 
would  be  natural  for  her  to  be  rather  slow  in  becoming 
accustomed  to  a  great,  strange  place  like  that.  But 
she  will  get  used  to  it,  and  I  am  sure  if  you  manage 
it  rightly  she  will  care  as  much  for  you  in  time,  at 
least,  as  you  do  for  her.  It  seems  the  only  logical 
outcome  to  me." 

"That  is  because  you  are  a  woman,  and  a  woman's 
logic  is  generally  sentiment  based  on  her  own  desires." 

The  conversation  paused.     Presently  he  remarked : 

"And  Mam'  Ansie,  how  is  she  acting  under  the 
change?" 

326 


NOBODY'S 

"She  seems  happy  enough,"  Miss  Hartley  replied, 
"but  she  is  still  governed  by  the  old  habit  of  super- 
stition. Celeste  told  me  the  other  day  that  she 
caught  her  over  the  grave  of  Dorothy  Lowndes 
actually  praying  to  the  dead  woman's  spirit  not  to 
molest  her  any  longer,  and  assuring  her  that  Celeste 
was  in  safe  hands.  Celeste  said  she  finally  suc- 
ceeded in  quieting  her,  but  she  scarcely  hopes  ever 
wholly  to  rid  her  of  her  weird  anxiety." 


CHAPTER  XXXIII 

THE  visitors  found  the  old  home  of  the  General 
lighted  throughout.  The  owner  himself  met 
them  at  the  door.  Greeting  Miss  Hartley  pro- 
fusely, he  sent  her  up-stairs  to  Celeste's  room. 

"I  think  she  would  like  to  see  you  up  there,"  he 
said.  "She  and  Mam'  Ansie  seem  to  be  having  a 
fine  time  over  something  or  other.  They  have  been 
laughing  for  the  last  half -hour." 

When  Miss  Hartley  had  gone,  General  Lowndes 
took  the  young  man's  hand  again  and  held  it  while 
he  said :  "I  can  hardly  remember  when  I  have  told 
a  man  I  was  sorry  for  any  word  or  act  of  mine, 
Gordon,  but  I  owe  you  ten  thousand  apologies  for 
my  rudeness  the  other  night.  You  can  imagine 
how  I  feel,  now  that  your  prediction  has  not  only 
proved  true,  but  has  brought  me  untold  happiness." 

"That  is  all  right,  General,"  Hartley  returned,  in 
some  confusion.  ' '  I  have  heartily  regretted  my  part 
of  it." 

Their  talk  was  interrupted  by  peals  of  laughter 
from  up-stairs,  and  Miss  Hartley  came  half-way  down 
the  steps  and  paused  to  say: 

"You  should  both  be  up  here.  Mam*  Ansie  has 
at  last  persuaded   Celeste   to   put   on   one  of  her 

328 


NOBODY'S 

mother's  beautiful  gowns  and  some  of  the  jewels. 
She  is  the  most  exquisite  sight  you  ever  saw." 

Skipping  away  like  a  school-boy,  the  General 
joined  the  speaker,  and  he  and  she  went  up-stairs 
together.  Hartley,  however,  felt  a  delicacy  in  go- 
ing, and  he  remained  alone  in  the  drawing-room. 
The  voices  still  came  down  to  him.  He  heard  the 
General's  exclamations  of  delight,  Celeste's  mild 
protests  against  being  made  so  much  of,  and  Miss 
Hartley  urging  her  to  go  down-stairs  to  her  brother. 

"Oh,  I  want  to  see  you  go  down  just  as  the  ladies 
did  fifty  years  ago,"  she  pleaded.  "It  would  be  so 
wonderful." 

"And  scold  him  soundly  for  being  late,"  threw  in 
the  General,  "and  declare  you've  changed  your 
mind  and  won't  go  to  the  ball  at  all." 

Celeste's  voice  followed:  "You  are  making  me 
look  and  feel  silly — perfectly  silly!"  Hartley  heard 
her  say.  "I  don't  mind  putting  the  things  on  since 
you  wish  so  much,  but  I  don't  want  to  make  a  show 
of  myself." 

Thereupon  rose  a  chorus  of  urging  voices  from  the 
eager  trio,  and  Hartley's  heart  stopped  beating,  for 
he  heard  C61este  say:  "Well,  well,  I  see  nothing 
else  will  satisfy  you.  I  look  like  a  freak;  but 
I'll  go." 

He  was  standing  in  the  hall  when  she  appeared 
at  the  head  of  the  wide  stairs.  She  was  inde- 
scribably beautiful.  The  yellow  silk  gown  fitted  her 
slender  figure  to  perfection.     Round  her  neck  was  a 

329 


NOBODY'S 

band  of  pearls.  Diamonds  sparkled  in  her  ears,  on 
her  wrists,  and  lurked  in  the  golden  tresses  above 
her  brow.  He  vaguely  heard  his  sister  asking  her 
host  to  show  her  the  view  by  moonlight  from  a  rear 
balcony,  and  the  General  complying.  Hartley 
knew  that  his  sister  was  thinking  of  his  interests,  and 
felt  sure  of  at  least  a  few  minutes  with  Celeste  alone. 

She  advanced  toward  him  from  the  foot  of  the 
stairs  gracefully  holding  the  long  train  of  her  gown 
in  her  left  hand. 

"They  are  awfully  silly,  aren't  they?"  she  smiled, 
flushing  prettily. 

"They  are  very  kind  to — ine,"  he  said,  as  he  took 
her  hand.  "I  wanted  to  see  you  in  that  costume, 
and  hoped  you'd  come  down.  You  are  wonderful 
in  it — simply  wonderful!" 

' '  I  can't  possibly  look  at  it  as  they  do. "  A  shadow 
flitted  across  her  face.  "All  those  old  things — the 
laces,  the  gowns,  the  jewels — are  beautiful,  but — 
but — "  Her  voice  shook.  "They  seem  so  sad,  so 
inexplicably  sad!  You  see,  I  have  never  seen  my 
real  mother.  To  me  she  seems  to  have  lived  away 
back  beyond  the  beginning  of  things,  in  the  saddest 
of  sad  periods.  She  was  only  a  little  older  than  I 
am — a  child  mother,  who  suffered  and  died  here  in 
this  lonely  old  mansion  dreading  disgrace  to  me 
and  to  her.  She  left  me  a  miniature  of  her  sweet 
face  framed  in  gold.  On  it  she  had  written,  'For 
my  baby,  with  all  her  mother's  love.'  No,  no,  I 
want  to  keep  her  beautiful  things  always — always, 

330 


NOBODY'S 

but  I  don't  want  to  wear  them  like  this,  when  my 
heart  really  is  lighter  than  it  ever  has  been.  Life 
was  so  unkind  to  her,  and  she  did  nothing  that  was 
really  wrong.     She  loved  fatally,  that  was  all." 

"I  see,"  he  said,  full  of  admiration  for  her  exalted 
mood  and  sentiment,  "but  you  must  remember,  if 
your  mother  were  here  she  would  like  to  see  you 
look  so  beautiful,  so  queenly.  Really,  you  are 
superb." 

"I  see" — she  arched  her  white  neck  like  a  swan 
as  she  looked  shyly  down — ' '  you'd  spoil  me  like  the 
rest." 

"I  don't  think  you  could  possibly  be  spoiled,"  he 
said,  sincerely. 

He  had  led  her  into  the  drawing-room,  and  they 
stood  under  the  great  crystal-hung  central  lamp. 
She  was  indeed  entrancing,  and  seemed  further  re- 
moved from  him  than  ever  before.  He  recalled 
what  she  had  so  firmly  said  on  more  than  one 
occasion,  that  she  would  not  be  as  weak  as  her 
supposed  mother  had  been  and  give  way  to  love 
for  a  man.  Hartley  now  told  himself  that  C61este, 
in  obeying  that  determination,  had  never  allowed 
herself  even  to  think  of  him  as  a  possible  lover.  If 
she  was  won,  it  would  have  to  be  done  in  the  time 
to  come.  She  was  as  heart-whole  as  on  the  first  day 
he  had  met  her,  and  now  that  this  exciting  change 
had  come  to  her,  it  would  be  impossible  to  get  her 
interested  in  a  mere  ordinary  man.  She  seemed  to 
note  the  air  of  dejection  that  hung  about  him,  and 

33i 


NOBODY'S 

stood  studying  him  with  the  eyes  that  had  never 
held  such  charm  before. 

"What  is  the  matter?"  she  suddenly  asked. 
"Are  you  tired  from  your  long  journey?" 

"It  was  tiresome,  hot,  and  dusty."  He  shifted 
the  responsibility  of  a  direct  confession  as  to  the 
cause  of  his  mood.  He  saw  her  turn  her  head 
furtively  toward  the  door,  and  then,  as  if  tired  of 
standing,  she  moved  to  a  settee  in  one  of  the  bay- 
windows.  She  seated  herself,  drawing  her  rustling 
train  aside  in  a  mute  invitation  to  him  to  sit  beside 
her.  There  was  a  worshipful  mood  of  reverence  on 
him.  Had  he  been  the  humblest  subject  of  a  queen 
and  she  the  queen,  he  couldn't  have  felt  more  un- 
worthy of  a  seat  by  her. 

"Sit  down,  please,"  she  said,  a  volume  of  inex- 
plicable feeling  in  her  upturned  eyes,  "I  want  to — 
to  say  something  to  you." 

He  complied,  noting  the  brilliancy  of  the  band 
about  her  neck,  the  jeweled  bracelets  on  her  taper- 
ing wrists,  the  coral  curves  of  her  pouting  lips,  the 
exquisite  chin  and  snowy  brow.  He  could  think  of 
nothing  to  say. 

"I  was  sorry  you  were  not  here  when  it  hap- 
pened," she  said.  "I  thought  of  you  first  of  all. 
I  knew  you'd  be  glad." 

"Of  course  I  was,"  he  answered,  lamely,  "very, 
very  glad." 

' '  I  want  to  tell  you  about  what  happened  here  the 
other  day,"  Celeste  went  on.     "A  man  called  on  my 

33* 


NOBODY'S 

gran — grandfather.  It's  a  hard  word  to  speak,  but  he 
is  beating  it  into  me ;  he  wants  me  to  call  him  that, 
but  it  sounds  very  queer.  In  some  ways  I  seem  just 
to  have  been  born.  I  started  to  say  that  a  man  called 
on  him.    You  know  him,  I  think — old  Mr.  Trawick  ?" 

"Yes,  yes,"  Hartley  nodded,  wonderingly,  "old 
Gid  Trawick,  a  curious,  outspoken  old  man." 

"It  seems  that  he  and  my  grandfather  are  old 
army  friends.  Mr.  Trawick  was  one  of  his  most 
faithful  men.  He  came  actually  crying  and  plead- 
ing with  my  grandfather  to  forgive  him  for  having 
been  in  that  mob  that  rose  against  you  that  night — 
on — on  account  of  me." 

"Oh!"  Hartley  exclaimed,  and  then,  with  his  eyes 
fixed  on  hers,  he  sat  silent. 

"My  grandfather  was  hard  to  win  over  at  first, 
but  finally  they  came  to  terms,  and  they  sat  and 
talked  together.  They  sent  for  me,  and  the  old 
man  started  to  get  down  on  his  knees  to  me  to  ask 
my  forgiveness,  but  grandfather  wouldn't  let  him. 
That  was  all  very  nice  and  genuine,  but  in  old  Mr. 
Trawick's  talk  about  that  awful  night  I — I  learned 
the  thing  that  you  refused  to  tell  me — I  learned 
what  it  was  that  caused  the  mob  to  slink  away  in 
shame  and  leave  you  alone." 

"Oh!"  Hartley  dropped  his  glance  to  the 
floor.  The  situation  was  embarrassing  in  the  ex- 
treme. 

Celeste  put  out  her  hand  and  touched  him  on  the 
arm.     "Mr.  Trawick  stood  up,  to  show  us  just  how 

333 


NOBODY'S 

you  faced  them  all,  and  with  tears  actually  stream- 
ing down  his  cheeks,  he  tried  to  repeat  your  speech. 
He  said  you  stood  there  in  the  face  of  actual  death 
at  the  hands  of  a  band  of  men  that  the  slightest  thing 
would  inflame,  and  denounced  them  all  as  a  pack  of 
cowards,  and  ended  by  telling  why  you  had  defended 
me." 

Something  like  a  sob  rose  in  the  girl's  throat; 
she  pressed  her  hand  down  on  her  breast  and  was 
silent.  Hartley  sought  in  vain  for  a  suitable  thing 
to  say  in  deprecation  of  her  implied  praise,  but 
nothing  came  to  him. 

4 'You  did  that  for  me — just  for  me,  who  till  you 
came  South  had  never  been  befriended  by  a  man." 

"It  wasn't  anything,"  he  faltered.  "I  had  to 
speak  my  mind,  I  suppose.  It  was  rather  tough 
treatment  being  tied  with  a  rope  and  ordered  about 
like  a  convict,  when  I  was  only  trying — "  He  went 
no  further. 

Celeste  continued  to  look  down.  She  was  now 
twirling  her  fingers  in  the  lap  of  the  beautiful  gown. 
Silence  fell.  The  voice  of  the  General  stole  in  from 
the  outside. 

"Come  this  way,"  they  heard  him  saying.  "I'll 
show  you  the  old  sundial.  It  was  made  in  Eng- 
land. It  is  over  beyond  the  hedge."  His  voice 
died  out  in  the  distance. 

Presently  C61este  began  again.  "After — after 
Mr.  Trawick  had  gone  away,"  she  faltered,  "my 
grandfather  told  me  of  his  quarrel  with  you.     He 

334 


NOBODY'S 

told  me  that  if  you  had  not  said  what  you  did  that 
evening  just  as  you  said  it,  in  that  great  burst  of 
fury,  he  would  have  died  without  ever  discovering 
who — who  I  am." 

"Oh,  I  think  it  would  have  come  about  sooner 
or  later,"  Hartley  returned.  "Things  were  moving 
in  the  right  direction.     Elwood  was  trying  to — " 

"No;  it  would  not  have  come  out,"  Celeste  de- 
clared. "I  should  never  have  known  but  for  you — 
just  you.  From  the  first  day  you  got  here  you 
have  had  my  interests  at  heart.  I  knew  it.  I  saw 
it.  I  felt  it.  I  didn't  know  what  would  happen, 
but  you  gave  me  a  hope  that  I  never  had  had  before. 
Grandfather  told  me  something  else — "  The  musi- 
cal voice  faltered,  dropped,  and  regained  courage 
and  went  on:  "Perhaps  I  ought  not  to  speak  of  it 
to  you,  but  my  heart  is  so  full  of  gratitude  that  it 
seems  about  to — burst.  My  grandfather  said  when 
you  were  so  furious  here  that  night  that  you  told 
him — you  told  him  that  you — loved  me  with  all 
your  heart.     Oh,  oh — " 

Her  voice  died  out;  she  was  not  looking  at  him 
now.  Hartley  felt  a  chill  pass  over  him.  It  was 
coming,  he  told  himself.  She  was  going  to  say  that 
she  was  sorry  for  him — sorry  to  have  heard  that  he 
felt  as  he  did  when  she  had  not  thought  of  his  feel- 
ings being  involved.  He  made  no  response.  He 
was  at  the  lowest  ebb  of  despair.  How  wonder- 
fully beautiful  and  unattainable  she  seemed!  What 
man  could  win  her?     Her  mystic  genius  hung  over 

335 


NOBODY'S 

her  like  a  tantalizing  veil  which  could  not  be  pene- 
trated. He  thought  of  the  profound  things  she  had 
said,  the  untranslatable  strains  of  her  violin,  her 
divine  touch  upon  the  piano.  Her  beautiful  body- 
seemed  the  dwelling-place  of  a  soul  no  mere  man 
could  hope  to  comprehend. 

"Why  are  you  so  silent?"  She  lifted  her  eyes 
and  bent  a  tender  gaze  upon  him. 

He  locked  his  hands  and  twisted  his  fingers  to- 
gether like  prongs  of  inflexible  steel,  but  still  he 
found  voice  for  nothing — nothing. 

"Perhaps  my  grandfather  was  just  fibbing — just 
trying  to  say  something  nice.  He  is  such  a  flatterer, ' ' 
she  faltered,  with  a  little  sigh. 

"Oh  no,  I  said  it!"  Hartley  burst  forth.  "I 
could  have  spoken  volumes  and  volumes  besides, 
but  nothing  could  do  justice  to  my  feeling,  my  love 
— my  adoration,  my  worship." 

The  words  came  out  in  the  sheer  simplicity  of 
despair.  She  stared  straight  into  his  eyes,  and  in- 
clined her  queenly  head  a  little  nearer.  He  saw  her 
inhale  a  trembling  breath  of  deep  delight,  and  felt 
the  warmth  of  her  flushed  face.  She  smiled  reminis- 
cently.  "Gordon,  do  you  remember  when  I  was 
hanging  over  that  cliff  expecting  every  instant  to 
fall  to  my  death?  My  face  was  very,  very  close 
to  yours.  I  didn't  think  I'd  live  long  enough  to 
blush  over  it,  and  I  wanted  to  do  it — I  wanted  to  kiss 
you  good-by.  I  love  you  with  all  the  soul  that's 
in  me.     No  woman  ever  lived  who  had  such  a  lover. 

336 


NOBODY'S 

I  know  you  love  me.     I  knew  it  all  along,  but  as 
it  was  then  I  saw  our  great  danger." 

The  room  was  very  still.  He  put  his  arm  about 
her,  and  drew  her  sweet  face  to  his  and  kissed  her 
on  the  lips.  He  put  his  hand  reverently  into  the 
depths  of  her  hair,  and  kissed  her  again  and  again. 


THE     END 


II 


«THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
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W,LL  ,NCREASE  TO  50  CENTS  ON  THE  FOUR"™ 

oCeRouNeD  T°  ,,0°  °N   THE  •«™™US[v 


.  MAR   14  1936 


MAR  21  1936 


APB_16J936_ 
_QCI_2U936 


— 


LD  21-100m-7,'3J 


XB  3252 


X 


